












CoipghtN" 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 























I 



I 


t 


( 


X 


J 


i. 






1 ^ 


I 


%• 




I 


i 






V 

. . i I 


I 


1 


** •0> 


T •* ' 





‘KA 


'.' r i'- y '‘O *, ^ » I 

, _ ' * • y ■ * ’S' ■*. ♦ . ^ ., • 

% *:=* •« < * ' aJM \. 



V- ‘iH 

- t .^v : 


i » 


f^ - ' 



•# 

JL* 

^ il •■ 


i/ 1* 


I 




, \ 


Jii^ • ‘ 


- 

— . *.', 

■ • 

V 

■y 

V', 

« . 1 ^ 



1 •■■ V 

f ’r f r . 
=W’ . i ' . 

.. h 

'*' /• , r • ■ ■^' .'•!—. 

V 

f V 

. l^:' *' 

>Am. 

1 V 'vs-/- 

v> 






GIGI 








GIGI THE HERO 
OF SICILY 


BY 

-* % 

FELICIA BUTTZ CLARK 

\\ 



New York: EATON & MAINS 
Cincinnati: JENNINGS & GRAHAM 


^ LteHAKYoToONGRissf 
■ rww CoolM Becelvod | 

! OCT IS 19W 

vsfezo 


Copyright, 1907, by 
EATON & MAINS. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. I 

II. II 

III. 20 

IV. 27 

V. 37 

VI. 46 

VII. 59 

VIII. 70 

IX. 80 

X. 94 

XI. 107 

XII. 117 



ILLUSTRATIONS 


Gigi Frontispiece 

Palermo -------- Page 22 

Terra Cotta Jars - - - - - - “ 56 

An Old Sicilian Fisherman - - - - “ 76X 

On a Dusty Road - - - - - -“98/ 

One of the Drummers - - - - - “ 120 ^ 



CHAPTER I 


The cannon boomed from the fortresses 
of Palermo and great puffs of white smoke 
floated away against a sky of the deep blue 
which is so characteristic of Italy, and 
especially of Sicily. Besides the white ten- 
dril of smoke there was no cloud to be seen 
from horizon to horizon. 

Among the lacy-leaved olives on the 
mountains above the city Gigi stood, broad- 
shouldered, his firmly cast muscles showing 
plainly beneath his brown skin where his rag- 
ged shirt had fallen open. Under his mass 
of curly hair and straight brows his dark 
eyes flashed. 

“They’re firing on the town,” he mur- 
mured. “Garibaldi’s come at last. Hur- 
rah!” 

Snatching his tom straw hat from his 
head, he waved it vigorously aloft in the 
simshine. His swarthy skin, his rich color, 
his graceful head, thrown back imtil the 
cords in his brown neck were tense, his lithe 


2 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

figure, clad only in stained muslin shirt and 
rough homesptm trousers — against a back- 
ground of gold and green and azure — ^would 
have made a painting worthy of the Paris 
salon. 

Again he stood still, listening. Yes, it 
was the guns, now of the Red Devil and his 
scarlet-tunicked soldiers, who had come 
from the North to save the people of Sicily; 
again, the cannon of the defense boomed 
out, the sound reverberating on the quiet 
air till it reached the hills. Garibaldi was 
here at last. 

“Hurrah!’’ shouted Gigi again, and, 
hitching up his trousers with a well-prac- 
ticed hand, he hurried down the moimtain, 
leaping from rock to rock like a goat, his 
bare brown feet finding footing where an in- 
experienced person would have slipped and 
fallen. 

The small village, perched upon the round 
summit of a foothill, was already alive with 
excitement. From the broken-down door- 
ways of the stone houses which clustered 
closely together, side by side, as if leagued 
against a common enemy, came men, bare- 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 3 

headed, half-dressed, followed by women 
with babies in their arms and children cling- 
ing to their poor faded skirts. To the cen- 
tral Piazza they all went, jostling each other 
in their haste to be the first to hear any 
news which might come. Don Alfredo 
would be the first to have infonnation, and 
it was to the gate of the priest’s house that 
the crowd converged, a motley, half-fed 
group of peasants eager to escape from their 
present troubles no matter at what cost. 

“Was it true that Garibaldi had come? 
Was Palermo about to fall? What will be- 
come of us ? ” were some of the many ques- 
tions which confused the white-haired priest 
who had come forth to meet his people. He 
loved them every one. Only he knew how 
Beppo, yonder, slaved in the fields that his 
wife and baby might have food. He knew 
how Nonna Maria bent every day over the 
big fountain, where the water flowed down 
cool and sparkling from the springs on the 
moimtain top, and washed and washed and 
washed, rubbing until her knotted hands 
were sore and bleeding, beating the clothes 
upon the rough stones and spreading them 


4 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 


in the sunshine, that her crippled grandson 
might have bread to sustain his feeble exist- 
ence. And he knew how near the gray wolf 
of starvation was to the little village. The 
priest tried to be loyal to that rotten, wicked 
government at Naples, but in his heart he 
owned Garibaldi to be the savior of Sicily. 

Into this seething, restless crowd came 
Gigi, with flashing eyes and twirling hat. 
With each reckless leap his enthusiasm had 
increased. 

“Evviva Garibaldi!’’ he shouted. 

Garibaldi ! Garibaldi 1 ’ ’ responded the 
men, and the women wept in unison. 

In vain the priest tried to command or- 
der. The crowd was unmanageable. A hun- 
dred men were ready to volunteer at once. 

“I heard the guns,” explained Gigi, an 
hour later, seated on the church steps. 
Above the old carved portal a terra cotta 
Madonna with the infant Christ in her arms 
looked down upon the group of excited men, 
and the bell clanged forth a harsh call to 
Ave Maria. “ Up on the mountains I saw 
the smoke. Palermo can’t stand against 
Garibaldi; nothing can.” 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 5 

'‘E il diavolo!” exclaimed Beppo, de- 
voutly making horns with his fingers to pro- 
tect him from the evil spirit. 

Long into the night the discussions lasted, 
growing more and more heated, and the 
men did not notice that Gigi slipped out of 
their circle. Passing through a narrow 
winding street, he paused an instant outside 
of a partially ruined house. It was per- 
fectly quiet here, away from the Piazza with 
its clattering crowd of men and women. 
His father and stepmother were among 
them. Iva would be here alone, asleep, no 
doubt, on her bed of straw. Though the 
peasants were rough they were honest and 
kindly. There was no fear of theft, for no 
one in the poverty-stricken village had any- 
thing to lose. Their only treasures were 
the curly-headed, bright-eyed children, who 
were plentiful enough — ^le benedizioni di 
Dio (God's blessings) the simple-minded 
people called them — and they could be 
safely left in the open house protected by 
the patient donkeys, who shared the home 
with the family. 

Gigi found Iva where he expected. The 


6 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 


gray nose of the faithful donkey was not far 
above her head and his moist breath swept 
over her as she slept. Gigi lit a taper and 
in its feeble light looked down upon the 
child, his half-sister, the only person in the 
world who showed him affection. 

“ Iva ! Iva ! ” he whispered, but she did not 
waken. Stirring in her slumber, she lifted 
her hand and caressed his cheek. The boy 
kissed the rosy palm passionately. I am 
going away, Iva,’’ he said. “ Thou wilt not 
forget thy brother? ’ ’ 

Only the hoarse breathing of the animal 
made reply. Raising the taper, Gigi looked 
aroimd him. A poor enough place it was. 
Two or three pieces of furniture — ^mahog- 
any, richly carved, now scratched and 
marred by years of careless usage — stood 
near the mildewed, dirt-covered walls. He 
touched them tenderly, with that pathetic 
romance which lies in Southern hearts. 
Opening one of the drawers, he stealthily 
drew forth a miniature and thrust it down 
under his shirt, close to his rapidly beating 
heart. 

“It is not stealing,” he thought, stoutly 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 7 

protesting against a twinge of conscience. 
“ He does not want it any more. She's my 
mother, and I’ll take her with me.” 

As if ashamed, he hastily extinguished 
the taper and went out into the street. 
The moon had risen high in the dark blue 
heavens. The narrow, dirty street, the old 
houses, were illuminated and glorified by it. 
It made the shadows more intense, and for 
this Gigi was glad, for he could creep along 
the wall in them, safe from observation. 
The noise of firing down by the sea had 
ceased. Who had won — Garibaldi, the brave 
general, or the base Neapolitans ? For him- 
self, Gigi had no doubt at all. Garibaldi had 
been a mythical personage whose sword the 
good God blessed for the salvation and re- 
lief of the poor and suffering. Now he had 
become a reality. He would save Sicily. 

With exultation in his boyish soul Gigi 
went on, out of the village, down the hill, 
across the valley, and on, for many miles, 
imtil his feet, long accustomed to rough 
stones, were cut and bleeding. He did not 
notice his suffering, but ran on, sometimes 
falling in his weakness — for he had eaten 


8 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

nothing that day but a crust of bread and a 
handful of figs — ever rising to fresh endeav- 
ors, forward toward Palermo. His plans 
were not yet formed. What he should do 
in that strange city he did not know. Gari- 
baldi, his hero, was there. He would work 
for him, slave for him, die for him, if neces- 
sary, so that the little children — like Iva — 
should no longer hold up emaciated hands 
and beg for bread ; so that the fair island of 
Sicily should blossom and bring forth the 
fruits of prosperity and happiness. 

So Gigi stumbled on, with visions in his 
mind of heroism and self-sacrifice and labor, 
and the night waned. The birds called to 
each other from the trees, and sweet wood- 
land scents arose from the ground. The 
forests were behind Gigi. He had reached 
the white villas on the hills above Palermo. 
In the gardens roses and lilies bloomed, foun- 
tains plashed, and the water fell in myriad 
diamonds into marble basins. Gigi vaguely 
looked at the high walls shutting out the 
paradise within, and wondered whether lit- 
tle children lived there — like Iva — and 
whether they had plenty to eat. True to 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 9 

his nature, he forgot his hunger when he 
saw a long branch laden with blush roses 
falling over the wall, as if it had stolen from 
its proper home to give joy to those who 
lived in the dust of the road. Reaching up 
with an exclamation of delight, he broke off 
a spray of three exquisite buds, half open, 
and fastened them in the old straw hat, ar- 
ranging them with care imtil his critical 
taste was gratified. 

Then into the midst of rose-scents came 
the odor of powder and the sound of cannon- 
firing. Gigi’s delicate nostrils expanded 
like those of a thoroughbred who longs 
for battle. Garibaldi had not yet con- 
quered Palermo; he would be in time to 
help. 

Toward him, in the cobblestoned street, 
there came a procession. On a bier lay a 
wounded man. They bore him to the small 
green door opening into the gray wall sur- 
roimding the villa. The roses nodded care- 
lessly in the summer breeze as the men 
passed in. Gigi, faint from lack of food, 
exhausted by his long walk, smelled the 
sickish odor of fresh wounds. He leaned 


10 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 


against the wall and wondered what had 
happened to the world: the sunlight was 
gone, the roses had faded; it was all black 
— ^black ! With a low moan Gigi fell a limp 
heap, in the yellow dust of the road. 


CHAPTER II 


The blazing July sun beat down pitilessly 
on Gigi as he lay helpless in the dust, but 
he did not heed it. Neither did he notice 
the people who hurried by — some on foot, 
others riding horses or donkeys; men with 
bandaged heads and arms; women strug- 
gling under heavy burdens, carrying on 
their heads packages of clothing. They 
hurried along, their brown faces pallid with 
fear. Palermo was in a state of siege. All 
those who could escape from the white city 
were leaving, bearing their treasures with 
them. Garibaldi had come to bring them 
liberty, but he had brought war and death 
also, and the simple-hearted peasants were 
afraid to remain in the city until the final 
result should be known. 

A man in scarlet imiform threw open the 
great iron gates of the villa, and one after 
another the wounded men who had been 
carried up the hill were brought into the 
spacious grounds. Some of them were taken 

II 


12 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

into the cool halls of the large house, others 
were laid on the grass in the shadow of the 
ilex trees, near blooming roses and the tink- 
ling fall of crystal drops in the fountains. 
Graceful marble statues of nymphs and 
fauns glistened among the green of the 
foliage. It was paradise compared to 
the inferno down in the town, where all 
was confusion, noise, fear, and burning 
heat. 

But Gigi was not noticed. A sick boy 
counts for little in times of war, and the 
procession tramped by, with steady sound 
of marching feet, while he lay quietly 
against the old gray wall — ^until a fine- 
looking man, seated on a splendid black 
horse, rode up to the iron gate. His iron- 
gray hair, his strong, noble features, and, 
above all, his air of authority caused the 
crowd to divide and let him take prece- 
dence. And then his glance fell upon Gigi. 

“Poverino!’' he said to himself. “One 
more victim, and he but a lad! O war, thou 
dost claim thy tribute even in the youth of 
our landT' 

Turning to the two soldiers who followed 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 13 

him on horseback, he commanded: “Lift 
the boy and bring him into the house. I 
trust he is not dead.” 

Quickly one of his attendants leaped to 
the ground, placed his hand on Gigi’s head, 
listened to his light breathing, put his ear 
against the boy’s chest, and replied: “He 
is alive, Signor Conte.” 

“Bring him in, then,” and, giving an 
acknowledging salute in response to that of 
the scarlet-uniformed porter who stood with 
his hand on the gate. Count Roberto Romoli 
rode into the grounds of his own home, 
where a strange but not unexpected sight 
met his eyes. Who but the “good Cotmt” 
would have opened his lovely home to the 
wounded and dying, or would have thought 
at all of the poor boy who lay at his gate? 
The hillside above Palermo was dotted with 
white villas, was scented with roses and vio- 
lets, but no other man had such a soul as 
Count Roberto; he alone, of all the noble 
Sicilians, remembered poor, suffering hu- 
manity. 

“ Take the boy up yonder, in the shade, 
and bring him food and drink, if he needs it. 


14 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

He seems to be half starved, and no doubt 
the sun has hurt his head/' 

He passed between the wounded men, 
greeting them wth cheery words, binding 
up some ragged, gaping wounds with his 
own hands, telling the women who were act- 
ing as nurses what to do for the greater 
comfort of his guests. In the excitement 
he forgot that his own side was bleeding, 
until, overcome with faintness, he staggered 
toward the cool portico where the men had 
laid Gigi. A lady arose from her kneeling 
posture beside the boy, whom she had been 
feeding from a spoon. In the fresh atmos- 
phere the hardened peasant lad had revived, 
and he gazed with awe-stricken brown eyes 
at her delicate face, observing her white, 
soft draperies, her sweet mouth and rose- 
tinted cheeks. Each time she smiled at 
him the rich color spread over his face to 
the moist curls on his forehead. And once, 
when she smoothed away his hair and 
bathed his head with some sweet-smelling 
liquor, calling the attention of a maid to the 
fair skin which lay above the sun-browned 
forehead, he shivered and drew his ragged 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 15 

shirt together, as though he would have 
hidden his wretehedness from her. 

^'Alieia,” said the Count, and his wife 
sprang to his side with a low ery of distress. 

‘'Roberto, art come at last? All night I 
have watched for thee, but thou didst not 
come. No news of thee, or of the battle. 
Nothing but the firing, constant firing, from 
Palermo. Art thou wotmded, dear Ro- 
berto?’' 

“ Call the men, Alicia!” 

“ Madonna mia, he is wounded and faint !” 
For a moment her composure left her, and 
Gigi heard her whisper: “O God, let this 
pass from me 1 I cannot bear it ! ” With an 
effort she became calm once more, and fol- 
lowed the men who bore her husband to his 
room. 

All day Gigi lay on the marble-paved por- 
tico and wondered if he were in heaven. It 
was new and strange to one whose life of 
sixteen years had been passed in the ruined 
cottage of the mountain village, where filth 
and dirt were as common as the sunshine 
and the rain. He was still very weak and 
slept a great deal, but when he wakened he 


1 6 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

looked out upon the smooth lawn, the 
flowers, the water and statues, upon the 
fine old trees, through which the afternoon 
sun was piercing lancelike rays upon the 
wounded men groaning with pain in the 
midst of the loveliness. Toward the cool of 
evening he dragged himself down the steps 
and rested against a tree near a soldier who 
seemed more quiet than the others. 

“What news is there in Palermo?’' Gigi 
asked. 

“Don’t you know?” the Sicilian replied, 
in characteristic fashion, with another ques- 
tion. 

“ How should I ? I only came down from 
the hills last night.” 

“And stopped here to rest? Per Bacco, 
you peasant lads take your ease. If I had 
my legs, instead of having had them shot 
off, you may be sure I wouldn’t be here 
among the roses with women to take care of 
me.” 

There was so much sarcasm in these re- 
marks that Gigi flushed. 

“You don’t suppose I would either, if I 
didn’t have to, do you?” he replied, filled 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 17 

with righteous indignation. I had walked 
all night and had nothing to eat, and the 
sun was terribly hot, and I saw you fellows 
being carried by — and I couldn’t stand it, 
that’s all. How I got here I don’t know. 
When I came to myself I was lying up yon- 
der and an angel was bending over me.” 

“ I ask your pardon, comrade.” The sol- 
dier reached out a feeble hand, which Gigi 
grasped heartily. “ I see now you’re but a 
lad. Better go back among the olives; it’s 
worse than useless to go to Palermo, imless 
— ^unless 

He paused, and Gigi replied simply, 
I’m going to join Garibaldi.” 

He expected an explosion of wrath from 
the soldier, who had lost his leg in the cause 
of Naples, but none came. 

“Then you’re safe enough,” responded 
the soldier, “for Garibaldi’s won the battle. 
Haven’t you noticed there’s no more firing? 
It ceased at nine this morning. The game’s 
up as far as Palermo is concerned, and I’m 
glad of it. Old Bomba was a mean old ty- 
rant, and his son, the present king, is no 
better. Garibaldi is well named the Red 


1 8 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

Devil, and his claws will soon scratch the 
king himself. May God grant it! WeVe 
suffered enough. Had I my leg once more, 
I’d fight with him, and not against him.” 

Exhausted by this long speech, the sol- 
dier closed his eyes, as if he wished to sleep. 
Gigi sat quietly near him, thinking harder 
than he had ever done before. The purple 
shadows of evening crept in among the trees 
and shrouded the marble statues. They 
looked like wraiths in the twilight. Lights 
glimmered in the villa. Voices of suffering 
men sounded shrilly on the still air. The 
scents of the flowers mingled oddly with the 
odors of chloroform and carbolic acid. Ro- 
mance and beauty took second place in the 
midst of human agony, the result of war. 
The white-clad figure of the Countess passed 
among the men, giving one a cold drink, 
bathing the burning brow of another, or 
loosening the bandage of a third. Many a 
time a rough man caught her hand as she 
went by and kissed it, calling her an angel, 
the beloved of the Madonna. She smiled 
gently at him, and continued her errands of 
mercy while her heart ached with sorrow, 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 19 

for up in the villa, in the large handsomely 
frescoed room, “good” Count Roberto lay, 
crazy with delirium. The whole world was 
dark and joyless to the Countess Alicia that 
night after Palermo yielded herself to the 
red-shirted men of Garibaldi’s troops. 

Gigi watched her until his eyes closed 
with sleep, and he lay, as many times be- 
fore, with his head pillowed on a tree-root, 
his body on the soft mosses, and no roof 
over his head but the concave sky — its 
myriad lights twinkling and gleaming in the 
clear southern air as if they laughed at the 
sufferings of poor mortals on the earth 
while they swimg in eternity of space. 


CHAPTER III 


Gigi was very tired, not having slept at 
all the night before, and he never wakened 
until the sun shone full in his eyes. Then 
he came to himself with a start. Where 
was he? How did he happen to be in this 
heavenly place? It all came to him in a 
few moments, and he realized that he must 
be off for Palermo. There was no time to 
be lost. Even now Garibaldi might be 
marching on to new victories and he would 
have no share in them! Making his way 
between the bodies of the men, he ap- 
proached the house. It looked whiter than 
ever in the morning light. The leaves of the 
great palms which stood guard over it 
glistened as if the dew had given them their 
daily bath. Tall sprays of white zucca 
blossoms shot up from the heart of giant 
plants, a thousand fuchsias fell from the 
century-old vine which clambered up one 
side of the wall. On the portico the Coun- 
tess was drinking coffee at a small table. 

20 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 21 

Gigi saw that she was not so young as he 
had thought her yesterday. Her blue eyes 
were encircled with dark rings and her face 
was very pale ; yesterday it had seemed like 
the heart of a pale blush rose. Her gown of 
white muslin was crisp and fresh, her fair 
hair, imtinged with the snows of age, was as 
smooth as satin, but her hand trembled 
when she lifted her cup of coffee, and he 
saw that it was thin and very delicate. He 
waited respectfully near the steps until she 
should notice him. For a long time she 
was absorbed in her own thoughts and an 
expression of sadness was on her face. At 
last she saw him and smiled. 

“I have come to say good-by, gracious 
lady,” he said, “and to thank you for your 
great kindness to a poor boy.” 

“Have you eaten an3rthing? Where are 
you going? Are you sure you feel well 
enough to walk? If not, better stay here 
until you are thoroughly rested.” 

“ I thank your ladyship,” Gigi responded, 
bowing with that grace which is inherent in 
every Italian, be he peasant or noble. “ I 
feel perfectly well. I am a moimtain lad. 


22 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

my lady, and we care little for heat or cold. 
Where the wild goat leads we can follow. I 
am going to Garibaldi, at Palermo, and will 
fight for him. With your permission I will 
eat a bit of bread and coffee and be thank- 
ful. 

“You are young, my boy.^' Then she 
added, wistfully, “Have you no mother, 
that you leave your home ? ’ ' 

Gigi observed that she did not speak his 
language very freely; there was a peculiar 
accent. If he had been wiser in the ways of 
the world he would have known that she 
was English by birth and training, and her 
knowledge of Italian had been acquired 
after her marriage to Count Roberto Rom- 
oli, twenty-five years before. 

“ Have you no mother?'' she repeated, as 
he hesitated to reply. 

Gigi was, by nature, quiet, reserved, un- 
communicative. Perhaps his surroundings 
had tended to develop in him this charac- 
teristic. He felt in his soul elements which 
were lacking in his neighbors and compan- 
ions; he loved the beautiful, and they had 
called him “the Dreamer" up in the village 


PALERMO 








Gigi the Hero of Sicily 23 

on the cone-shaped hill, because he would 
sit for hours gazing at the view down the 
valley, watching the green and gray and 
purple tints spread over the mountains or 
the fantastically formed clouds floating by 
in the deep blue heaven. His own father 
jeered at him, though he was a man of con- 
siderable education who had appeared in 
the village, fifteen years before, with all his 
belongings tied up in a gay handkerchief 
and a year-old baby in his arms. He had 
never disclosed who he was or what his life 
had been before he wandered into the heart 
of Sicily, and few dared inquire into his se- 
crets. If they ventured once to do so they 
never did it twice, for Romeo Scotta was 
not a man to be trifled with. A few months 
later he married a pretty peasant girl, ab- 
solutely ignorant of learning, and Gigi grew 
up as he could, with his little mouth firmly 
closed and his few secrets bound up in his 
own small soul. One day, in a fit of boyish 
plimdering of the bureau drawers, he had 
foimd a miniature of a sweet-faced woman. 
It was set in pretty yellow metal, and he 
ran with it to his father. 


24 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

'‘Who is the beautiful lady?’' he asked, 
and his father lifted his heavy hand to strike 
the boy down in his anger. Then he let it 
fall at his side. 

“It’s your mother, Gigi,” he said, with 
sudden gentleness. “ Put it back now, and 
when you are a man you may have it.” 

So Gigi had felt justified in taking the 
miniature on the night when he left home. 
It was his by right. She was his mother — 
his; and he was the only one who loved her. 
To him she had become a reality. He had 
felt her caresses, had heard her low voice, 
had seen her face in his dreams. She had 
not been unlike the lady who sat on the 
portico of Count Romoli’s villa. She be- 
longed to another world, far removed from 
the vulgar life of the squalid village. It 
was for this reason — ^because she belonged 
to him and he to her, because she was differ- 
ent and he must be different — ^that he had 
held himself aloof from his companions. 
They called him “superbo” — ^proud — ^be- 
cause, though he wore rags, he was always 
as clean as the fresh water in the mountain 
stream could make him, and his language 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 25 

was pure and clean also, for she would have 
wished it so. Into his boy life a visionary 
mother had come — and he loved her. He 
could tell the Countess of his mother, she 
would understand. 

“My mother is dead. This is her pic- 
ture, ’ ’ he said, drawing from beneath his shirt 
the miniature, attached to a coarse string. 

“It is the face of a ‘ Nobil Donna,' ” she 
responded, amazed. Suddenly she started, 
looked closely at the exquisite painting, and 
the color came into her pale cheeks. She still 
held the miniature, as she added: “ Come to 
my husband. He is conscious now." 

Gigi's eyes grew large with fear. Why 
did she not give him back his treasure ? She 
had no right to it ; it was his, and his alone. 

“Give me my mother's picture!" he 
growled, sullenly. 

Wondering at the change, she silently 
handed it to him. He attached it by the 
string around his brown neck. 

“Now, come," she insisted, but he shook 
his head. Like a wild animal brought to 
bay, he breathed hard. Why did she wish 
him to go to the Count? She wanted his 


26 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

mother’s portrait. Why? Because it was 
so beautiful — ^his only treasure ! The Count 
was great, rich and powerful ; he would take 
it from him, if his wife wanted it for her 
own. “ Come, my boy,” she repeated, smil- 
ing sweetly. But to his ignorant mind, now 
aroused to suspicion, it was the smile of a 
siren who lures the unwary traveler into 
danger; he had heard tales of these spirits 
from old Nonna in the village. She should 
not cast her spell over him. He made 
horns behind his back against the Evil Eye. 
But he could not forget that she had been 
very good to him. 

Quickly dropping on one knee, he kissed 
her hand with passionate abandon, then 
turned and ran swiftly down the road be- 
tween the statues, past the man in the scar- 
let uniform, who gazed after him in amaze- 
ment, through the great iron gates, still 
standing hospitably open to receive refu- 
gees and wounded soldiers, and along the 
hot cobblestoned road toward Palermo. 
His breath came hard and his limbs trem- 
bled, but he clasped his hand tightly over 
the precious miniature and held it firmly. 


CHAPTER IV 


A TROOP of rough, ragged peasants 
marched past Count Romoli’s villa toward 
Palermo. Gigi saw them when he stopped 
to rest, panting for breath, under the shade 
of a gnarled olive tree along the roadside. 
Its leaves were gray with dust, and there 
was no stream or fountain near in which 
Gigi could wash his flushed, heated face or 
cool his parched tongue. He raised himself 
on his elbow and looked curiously at the 
irregular procession of stragglers, brawny- 
armed, sturdy of limb, with faces lined and 
seared by the hard labor of each day under 
tropical simshine. Some carried tough 
sticks and others bore spades and hoes, 
their only weapons, as well as the imple- 
ments of toil 

“ Eh, there ! ’ ’ called Gigi ; where are you 
going so fast ? ” He recognized his kind, the 
tough mountain species. 

“Going to join Garibaldi,” shouted the 

men, and one of them, six feet in height, 
27 


28 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

looking like a giant amid his pigmy com- 
panions, added: “Thou mayest come with 
us if thou wilt, boy.” 

Gigi slipped from the rotmd moimd of 
dried earth imder the olive tree and joined 
them, feeling his enthusiasm rising at every 
step. For these stragglers talked of their 
hard lives, of the heavy and unjust taxes 
imposed by the brutal government at Na- 
ples. They had borne oppression like meek 
cattle all through these years; had seen 
their crops fail, their children starving be- 
cause of poor harvests; had sent blood 
money to the government that they might 
retain their miserable homes in the lonely 
hills of Sicily. Now liberty was at hand, 
and they were hastening to offer to the De- 
liverer the strength of their untrained, un- 
disciplined arms. 

“Where art thou from, boy?” inquired 
the big man, nicknamed by his neighbors 
“ the Giant, ” a title which he accepted with 
good nature. His face — ^ugly in feature, 
with a scar, which did not add to his beauty, 
cut across his left cheek and his nose — ^was 
full of kindliness and human sympathy. 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 29 

Gigi loved the Giant at once, and, after a 
searching glance into his face, fell into step 
with him. The boy was no pigmy, and 
stood bravely up to the Giant’s shoulder, 
keeping step with his long strides with little 
difficulty. 

“My home was in Genzano,” he replied, 
with some anxiety. He did not want to be 
sent back to the mountains by some friend 
of his father’s. 

“ I live at Bracciano, ten miles further up 
the valley. And my name’s Giovanni, 
though they call me ‘the Giant.’ ” 

He threw back his head and laughed so 
heartily that a smile spread from one to the 
other of the weary faces in the Volunteer 
Corps. A man at the rear began to sing in 
a raw, harsh voice. One by one the peas- 
ants joined in, singing monotonously a 
weird strain, repeating the words over and 
over. It became a regular marching mel- 
ody, the bare feet of the men keeping time 
to it. Thus they marched to the gates of 
Palermo, where the soldier on guard stopped 
them at the point of his bayonet. 

“Villains!” he said, “Birboni — rascals — 


30 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

you cannot enter. There is trouble enough 
in the city without having a horde of ragged 
shiftless men added to it.’' 

Then followed a torrent of expletives in 
the Sicilian dialect decidedly uncomplimen- 
tary to the Voltmteer Corps. The peasants 
stood the avalanche well. Their vocabu- 
lary was fully equal to that of the sentinel 
and they did not hesitate to deliver a broad- 
side of abuse, to which the soldier pretended 
to pay no attention. 

“You can’t enter,” he responded, finally, 
“by the Dictator’s orders.” 

The Giant stepped forward. There was a 
new dignity about him. “Will you take a 
message to Garibaldi for me?” he asked. 

The soldier glared at him, angrily. “ Why 
should I trouble to do it? The General 
doesn’t know you, son of a thief.” 

For a moment it looked as if the Giant 
would fell the five-foot-three sentinel with 
one blow. Decidedly the soldier would 
have the worst of it, and Gigi eagerly 
watched the little drama before the old 
arched gateway, forgetting his hunger, and 
wishing that “the Giant would wipe out 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 31 

that little rooster.” The Giant, however, 
was wise in his day and generation. His 
face cleared slowly. If he killed the soldier 
when he was doing his duty he would spend 
the day in the guardhouse, to be brought 
out at sundown and shot like a dog. He 
knew Garibaldi well; the great General 
brooked no breach of discipline. The law- 
less men who sometimes — ^frequently — 
formed a part of his regiment were forced 
to bow to his will and obey his orders, and 
they did so while under his command. 

The Giant changed his tactics. 

“ I say. Signor Tenente,” he remarked in 
a low tone, “where can I see the General? 
It’s necessary, I tell you.” 

To call a common soldier a lieutenant is 
— at least in Italy — a sure road to his heart. 
Although the sentinel knew that the Giant 
was well aware that no shoulder straps 
adorned his uniform, he was melted, and he 
replied graciously, “Well, now that you 
speak with common courtesy, I don’t mind 
telling you that he’s expected around in the 
course of an hour to inspect the gates. IC 
you wait long enough you’ll see him.” 


32 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

Touching his tom hat in military salute, 
the Giant retired in good order, followed by 
an admiring glance from the soldier. In- 
deed, there were few people who did not 
admire the Giant, even though he wore or- 
dinary cotton trousers and, most of the 
time, when it was hot, no shirt at all to hide 
his broad shoulders. 

The peasants had drawn back from the 
gate into the shade of the walls shutting 
out the cool gardens of the villas. There 
was no Count Romoli here to open wide his 
doors and invite into the earthly paradise 
the poor and weary. The Giant called out, 
“Garibaldi will be here soon.’’ With that 
they were content, settling themselves down 
to rest, seizing greedily upon any shade 
available. Patient, uncomplaining peas- 
ants, accustomed to browbeating, to hard- 
ships, to hunger and thirst, they were ready 
to wait all day, if need be. Although they 
had started from their homes with the aim 
of reaching Garibaldi and fighting with him 
for freedom, they had had no organization ; 
a motley crowd with no head. From the 
moment when the Giant spoke to them at 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 33 

the gate of Palermo he became the leader, 
and on his judgment they relied without 
doubt or fear. 

A group of men turned aside from the 
main road into a field where garbage was 
thrown and, half reclining, began a game of 
Mora, gambling even in the face of war, 
where death and suffering, women weeping 
over the corpses of their sons and hus- 
bands, children calling in vain for the father 
who would never return, were but a stone’s 
throw from them, behind the wall which 
shut them out from the city. 

The Giant curled his long legs under 
him and motioned Gigi to sit beside 
him. 

Art hungry, boy?” he asked. 

“I’ve eaten nothing since yesterday.” 
Gigi’s eyes rested eagerly on the big hunk 
of black, hard bread which the Giant drew 
from the knotted red handkerchief he had 
been carrying. He took out a vicious- 
looking one-bladed pocketknife and cut the 
piece in two. 

“ Enough for thee and me too, figlio mio. 
Thou hast not told me thy name,” he con- 


34 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

tinned, “ and I have disclosed mine to thee. 
Turn about is fair play.’' 

His teeth, when he laughed, were regular 
and perfectly white, the teeth of a man who 
has fought the battle of life on a diet of 
much fruit and black bread and little or no 
meat. 

“ It’s Gigi ” The boy hesitated. 

The Giant laughed again. He was easily 
amused, like a whole-souled man with the 
simple, pure heart of a child. 

“It’s all right. Thou dost not need to 
tell me the other name. We all have our 
secrets here. That thin fellow over yonder, 
ruining himself over Mora, is known as the 
Match, and the fat old gentleman who is 
trying to squeeze himself into one foot of 
shade by the wall is the Pig, and I’m the 
Giant. It isn’t always safe or desirable to 
pry into the private affairs of this crowd, 
and I don’t want to. Thou wilt be known 
as the Babe. I suppose thou hast run away 
from home and I ought to take thee — or 
send thee — ^home to thy weeping, sorrowing 
family, but I’m not going to do it, so don’t 
be afraid. Probably thou art more com- 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 35 

fortable here. I don’t care a soldo where 
thou comest from, but I like thee, lad, and 
thou shalt stay with me.” 

Gigi could think of nothing to say, and 
ate his bread contentedly. The Giant 
again extracted his invaluable pocketknife, 
took a plug of tobacco from some unknown 
place, cut off a piece and began to chew it 
slowly. Presently he said, in a quiet tone : 
“ How old art thou, Gigi? I like thy name 
— it sounds of grapes, and vineyards, and 
donkeys with paniers full of purple fruit, 
and the pressing out of the wine in the 
autumn by bareheaded, laughing girls. 
How many summers have passed over thy 
curly head ? ’ ’ 

“Sixteen, Signore.” 

“Per Bacco, thou shalt call me Uncle — 
Uncle Gianni.” 

Silence followed for fully five minutes. 
Gigi grew sleepy from the heat and the sat- 
isfaction of having a full stomach once 
more. He roused when the Giant spoke to 
him again. The words sounded far away, 
and he saw that the man’s big brown eyes 
were full of tears. 


36 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 


‘'Thou shalt call me ‘Uncle/ but I shall 
call thee 'Figlio ' — my son — ^for I like thee, 
my boy. And — more slowly — “I had a 
son once, and he was sixteen, and he ran 
away from home because I was too severe 
with him. IVe never seen him since, but I 
hope he found some one to call him ‘ figlio 
mio.' 

Gigi slipped his hand sympathetically 
within the Giant's large one, and the Giant 
smiled down on him. He felt that his head 
was drawn gently down to a resting place 
on his new friend’s knee, and he slept. 


CHAPTER V 


How long it was before he awoke he did 
not know, but the sun was high in the sky, 
beating down pitilessly upon the forlorn 
body of men. Gigi rubbed his eyes to make 
certain that he saw distinctly. Out of the 
dark archway of the city gate a man rode 
on horseback. He wore a scarlet tunic, 
coarse cotton trousers, and a rotmd cap set 
well forward over his face. His beard was 
golden brown, his hair himg over his collar 
and was of the same rich brown. His eye 
was keen and clear, his features very strong 
and regular; some one has said that he 
had the face of the Apollo Belvedere. 

As Garibaldi appeared, followed by sev- 
eral officers, all in the tmiform of the Gen- 
eral — scarlet shirts and plain trousers — ^the 
peasants rose and rushed toward him. A 
motion from the Giant stopped them. He 
had already unconsciously assumed the 
authority which they acknowledged. He 
stepped forward, but Gigi kept close to his 

37 


38 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

side and the Giant did not send him 
away. 

The General said a few words to the sen- 
tinel and then reined in his horse, exam- 
ined the walls, the road, and finally the 
peasants, his glance resting first on the 
Giant and Gigi, then wandering over the 
poor crowd of men. His face was serene 
but somewhat sad, as if war and its horrible 
accompaniments weighed upon his spirits. 

A woman with an infant in her arms 
sprang to his side. 

“ Look at my child ! ’ ’ she shrieked, “ thou 
deliverer of Sicily! He is starving. His 
father lies dead and I have no money and 
no food. Have pity on the infant, thou 
savior of our country! Provide food for 
it. I can starve, but my child — ^his child — 
must not.” 

Garibaldi leaned from the saddle and 
took the child in his arms. It was a pretty 
little creature with delicate skin and black 
eyes. It smiled up in the General’s face. 
He stooped and kissed it very gently, and 
gave it back to the mother. Writing a few 
words on a slip of paper, he handed it to her. 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 39 

“ Give this to my secretary at headquar- 
ters. I have no public funds for you, but 
please God you shall not suffer while Gari- 
baldi has a soldo to give the suffering.” 

The woman kissed his hands and hurried 
away into the city. 

From that moment Gigi idolized Gari- 
baldi. With the faithful glance of a dog 
he watched every movement, saw him puz- 
zlingly examine the Giant’s face, and heard 
the words, “ Has the General forgotten 
Montevideo ? ” 

“Forgotten Montevideo! Never! Nor 
my old friend, who fought so bravely with 
me in the forests of South America. But 
you, what are you doing here, and with 
these men?” 

“They are my friends from the moun- 
tains, General — ^good, faithful fellows. They, 
and I, want to enlist under your banner.” 

Garibaldi smoothed his beard with a 
movement of indecision. To Gigi he seemed 
to be a chivalrous knight, noble, true, lov- 
able. Thus he has been to all Italians, even 
to all the world, ever since he first entered 
upon that courageous expedition in South 


40 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

America, earning for himself the title of 
“Hero of Montevideo.” Our own honored 
General Grant and Giuseppe Garibaldi had 
many traits in common; both were brave, 
intrepid, with power to command and that 
enthusiasm which led them on to certain 
victory. Garibaldi, however, had other 
characteristics. His peculiar uniform, his 
apparent recklessness — though actually he 
was cautious — made him a romantic figure, 
one whom men idolized and died for. 
Poems have been written about him and 
he has figured in countless tales. In Gigi, 
only sixteen, fresh from the solitary home 
in the mountains, he found another, though 
a humbler, adorer. 

“I have thought of making a few regi- 
ments of volunteers,” continued the Gen- 
eral. “Thousands are flocking to Palermo 
from the coimtry districts. They are tm- 
trained, but willing, and God knows we 
need help. There is going to be fighting, 
amico mio, hard, desperate fighting, before 
we get to Naples and displace Francis. 
Many of my brave soldiers lie in yonder, 
wounded unto death. Others fought their 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 41 

last battle yesterday. God will have mercy 
on their souls.” 

“Amen!” responded the Giant, with 
more reverence than would have been ex- 
pected from his rough exterior. Beneath 
his brown skin beat a faithful, true heart, 
full of love to God and man. He touched 
his gray hair in military salute. 

“Fll do it,” said the General, firmly. 
“ March your men into the Piazza in front 
of the Cathedral. We are using it now for a 
barracks and hospital. Giovanni, thou shalt 
be Captain. Lead away thy soldiers soon.” 

The Giant flushed crimson. This was an 
honor he had not expected. Yet, in these 
days of war, captains were made and un- 
made at the word of Garibaldi. 

The General touched his horse lightly 
with his hand, and the spirited animal re- 
sponded at once. Gigi felt that his time 
had come. Summoning all his courage, he 
said, “Signor Generale, what can I be, 
please ? ’ ’ 

A smile crossed Garibaldi's face, and 
when he smiled it was like a rift in the 
clouds and the sun peeping through it. 


42 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

“Thou art only a boy; wouldst better go 
back to thy mother.” 

“I have none, gracious General.” 

“ No mother! But a father, no doubt.” 

Gigi’s heart beat fast with fear. Had he 
walked over miles of stony road, braved the 
danger of the night and the heat of the 
burning sim, suffered hunger and faintness, 
all for nothing? “I will not go back! I 
will not!” he repeated to himself to keep 
his courage up. He knew, though, that 
what Garibaldi commanded he would and 
must do. He grew pale. The Giant came 
to his relief. 

“ The boy wants to go with us. General. 
He has a patriotic heart and wants to fight 
for the freedom of his people. May I speak 
a word to you. General?” 

Gigi stepped away, and stood, a lonely, 
shabby figure, on the hot cobblestones of 
the road. Hundreds of people were gath- 
ered now outside of the gate — venders of 
fruit, boys carrying large wicker-covered 
flasks of cool water ready to sell a few swal- 
lows to the thirsty men on payment of a 
small coin ; women crouched on the ground. 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 43 

some weeping, some with stolid, expression- 
less faces as if all hope had gone out of 
their lives — all were waiting permission to 
enter the city. The police had arrived on 
the scene and forced the crowd back, leav- 
ing a large open space, in which Gigi stood 
with the General and Giovanni. The latter 
was talking rapidly, gesticulating vigor- 
ously, after the graphic manner of the hot- 
blooded Sicilians. Garibaldi held in his 
restless horse with a powerful hand, and 
occasionally glanced at Gigi, who shifted 
uneasily from one foot to the other. Out- 
side of the humiliation of returning home, 
he knew that his father would give him a 
warmer reception than he desired, and his 
stepmother would jeer at him; but there 
would be Iva, his little sister! Forgetting 
for a moment the heat, the noise, the dust, 
and. the filth, he remembered how she had 
looked that last evening, with the moon- 
light sifting through the cobwebbed win- 
dow, her baby hand under her cheek, her 
long lashes lying against her rose-leaf skin. 
Had Iva missed him? He could do little 
for her except to bring her the simple play- 


44 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

things Mother Nature provided — a cluster 
of brown acorns clinging to a large leaf 
spray; a bunch of wild strawberries, odor- 
ous, spicy ; a wounded bird, which they had 
nursed back to strength; a toadstool of 
wonderful formation, like a huge white um- 
brella. And when, one day, he fotmd a 
tiny toad and seated him beneath the white 
and scarlet fungus her joy was complete. 
How she clapped her small hands and 
kissed him gratefully! Well, if he must go 
back, it would not be quite so hard, because 
of Iva! 

“Come here, Gigi,” called Giovanni. 
He was laughing now, showing his big, 
white teeth. 

Garibaldi looked down pleasantly at 
Gigi. “ Canst thou beat a drum ? ” he asked. 

Gigi swelled with pride. “I can beat a 
tin pan. Signore,” he replied; “any boy 
can do that.” 

Garibaldi’s eyes twinkled. “Well hunt 
up an old drum in Palermo and thou canst 
practice on that. Then thou shalt lead the 
Volunteer Corps into battle.” 

Before Gigi could find the proper words of 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 45 

thanks the General had disappeared again 
and the dark archway swallowed up the 
figures of horse and rider. 

“Babe,” said the Giant, solemnly, as 
they walked back to the waiting crowd, 
“our fortune's made, per Bacco!” 

Bringing his great hand down on Gigi's 
shoulder with a force which shook the little 
form, the Giant strode on, his legs well to 
the front, and his head, on which his tom 
hat was now jauntily set, high in the air. 


CHAPTER VI 


The battle of Milazzo was over, and 
Garibaldi, surrounded by his officers, sat in 
the large living room of the castle overlook- 
ing the blue dancing waves of the Mediter- 
ranean. The castle was bare and dreary, 
for it had long been uninhabited, but in the 
midst of dust and dingy cobwebs the sol- 
diers secured a few hours of much-needed 
rest, lying stretched at full length upon the 
stones of the courtyard or in the cellars, the 
cool dampness very grateful to the weary 
men after a desperate fight which had 
lasted many hours. 

The room in which the General sat about 
three o’clock of this eventful day was long 
and narrow. On the side three windows 
opened upon the sea, overlooking the gray 
houses of the village which, in mediaeval 
fashion, were clustered about it. In this 
manner all country towns in Italy are built ; 
miniature cities, clinging closely to the 
cardinal’s palace or the castle of a feudal 

46 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 47 

lord. The roofs of the buildings were tiled 
with red, and terraces opened from them, 
broad, full of flowers, through which a 
girl’s face occasionally peeped out, half in 
fear, half in mischief, to watch the doings 
at the long rmoccupied castle. Along the 
damaged walls of this once handsome hall 
hung paintings grimly black with age ; por- 
traits of former governors — ^long-nosed, nar- 
row-faced men, whose eyes glared down at 
the rebel General who had dared to come 
into their presence and usurp their places. 
Garibaldi gave but a glance at these relics 
of a more glorious past. He threw off his 
cap with an air of relief and motioned the 
Neapolitan General to sit near him, on one 
of the plain wooden chairs. 

“Be careful that it has a firm seat,” he 
remarked, humorously, and the General 
responded, with a smile, “I fear we have 
not provided luxurious quarters for our 
conquerors.” 

“As good as I am used to.” Garibaldi 
shrugged his shoulders. “A bed of roses 
has never fallen to my share.” 

The General bowed. His face was pale, 


48 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

and an old wound in his arm had evidently 
broken out afresh in the exertions of that 
terrible fight. Though Palermo had been 
taken at the cost of many lives and much 
shedding of blood, the battle of Milazzo 
had been still more sanguinary. Anyone 
but the iron General Garibaldi, who had 
fought his way through life with his own 
strong sword, would have been exhausted 
by the day. He showed a few heavy lines 
around his eyes, but his hand was as firm 
as ever, and he might have marched forth 
to conquer other fortresses if it had been 
necessary. 

Cotmt Romoli looked at him with a mix- 
ture of curiosity and admiration. From his 
bed in the lovely villa he had risen to go 
b^ck to his soldiers. He had heard how 
the Sicilians had welcomed Garibaldi, call- 
ing him “Savior,’’ “Deliverer,” falling on 
their knees before him and worshiping him, 
as a divine being, with far more reverence 
than the pagans showed when they bowed 
before Jove. He knew how the women 
called down blessings upon him and held 
up their children that he might lay his hand 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 49 

on their little black heads. And he had 
listened to the marvelous tales of his brav- 
ery, which grew more wondrous in the tell- 
ing: how he had fought a whole army 
single-handed in the jungles of Brazil; how 
he had been helped by the Amazons; how 
he had escaped from terrible dangers — ^been 
shipwrecked, been captured by pirates — ^all 
these, and many other exaggerated tales, 
passed from mouth to mouth imtil the 
name of Garibaldi was surroimded by a 
halo of romance equal to that of Achilles, 
of Agamemnon, and all the ancient heroes 
of Greece and Asia. 

‘‘You are my prisoner, I suppose,’* said 
General Garibaldi, after a few words of 
conversation on the battle, “but I beg that 
you will accept my poor hospitality and 
eat at my table imtil orders come from 
Naples.” 

A dull crimson swept over Count Rom- 
oli’s white face. The situation was humili- 
ating. The battle was lost and he was a 
prisoner. Who would carry the news of the 
defeat to Alicia, waiting so anxiously at 
home? The full force of his position came 


50 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

upon him. He — the conqueror — ^was the 
prisoner of the rebel Garibaldi! 

“I thank you, General,” he replied, a 
little stiffly. '‘Your courtesy is appreci- 
ated. If you permit, I will go now to the 
wotmded soldiers under my command. 
They need me.” 

Garibaldi looked at him a moment, very 
gravely. Then a smile crossed his face, 
illuminating and beautifying it. Rising, he 
held out his hand, cordially. As simply as 
a child he spoke: "Believe me, I couldn’t 
help it. I would have given years of my 
life to save your men their suffering and 
you this sorrow. But it had to be done, 
General; it had to be done, and there was 
no other way but through streams of blood. 
It is not such noble men as you who have 
harassed and tortured these people till they 
were crazy in their agony and sent Crispi 
to ask me to help them. It is that tyrant at 
Naples!” He paused for an instant. Fas- 
cinated by his earnestness. Count Romoli 
stood, grasping his hand, and a great love 
for this brave soldier of fortune sprang up 
in his soul. Garibaldi was right. The peo- 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 51 

pie had been tortured, but the fault lay in 
the barbarous selfishness of those in author- 
ity at Naples, not in the army, which only 
carried out the commands of its superiors. 
“Your pardon. General! You are at lib- 
erty. Go where you please and return 
when you please. Only do not forget that 
in an hour we shall have bread and wine 
and a little soup — ^very poor fare — served 
here, and if your appetite is like mine you 
will enjoy it.’' 

“I give you my word of honor,” stam- 
mered Count Romoli, with scarlet face. 
He loosened from his belt his sword and 
laid it on the long deal table, which with 
the rough chairs completed the furnishing 
of the hall. The metal clanged as the heavy 
weapon fell upon the wood. “ I shall not 
run away.” The Count’s lips trembled. 

Garibaldi sprang forward, seized the 
sword, fastened the buckle of the belt se- 
curely at Count Romoli ’s waist, and sud- 
denly, exuberantly, kissed the captive Gen- 
eral on both cheeks, in the warm, Southern 
manner. 

“We are gentlemen!” he said, proudly. 


52 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

“I require no ‘parole d’honneur’ from my 
friends.” 

Stumbling down the irregular stone stair- 
case set deep into the massive walls, the 
Coimt went. His eyes were dim with tears. 
Garibaldi, the rebel, had surprised him into 
emotion. He no longer felt hiuniliated, for 
he had experienced that love which binds 
men together sometimes in links so strong, 
so lasting, that only death can break them, 
even though fate may have made them out- 
ward enemies, bom to lead armies against 
each other. 

Arrived in the court, the Coimt saw that 
the wotmded men were being carried in and 
laid gently on piles of clean straw. Side by 
side lay the Neapolitans and the Italians, 
brothers now in the fight against death, the 
last great enemy. Those who were so for- 
timate as to have escaped injury in the bat- 
tle attended to their woimded companions. 
Robed nuns, whose sweet faces showed 
white beneath their coifs, bore fresh water 
for parched lips and with deft fingers botmd 
up the jagged wounds. Priests took their 
share in the general commotion, and many 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 53 

a prayer was olfered on that blazing August 
day in the courtyard of the castle at Milazzo. 

Count Romoli, his old wound ignored in 
the presence of greater suffering, passed be- 
tween the improvised beds, encouraging 
one soldier with a cheering word, laying his 
cool uninjured hand upon the burning fore- 
head of a seriously wotmded man. He 
passed, at last, close to a man of great 
strength and size, lying helpless in one of 
the least-crowded comers. Beside him 
knelt a boy, whose face was scarcely less 
white than that of the patient tmder his 
care. Garibaldi had no money to buy cloth- 
ing for the volunteers from the motmtains, 
and Gigi had no new, fresh imiform to cover 
his little figure. The old trousers of home- 
spim cotton and the shirt which, with his 
customary dislike of all that was not fresh 
and clean, he had washed the day before 
the battle, in running water by the road- 
side, were all he possessed. When the 
Coimt saw him he was tearing his precious 
shirt into bandages to bind up the wound 
on the Giant’s shoulder, which was bleed- 
ing vigorously. 


54 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

‘‘The Sister will do that better for thee,’* 
remarked the Count, struck by something 
in the boy’s pale face. It was a look of 
anxiety foreign to a lad of sixteen. 

Gigi looked up. “I cannot wait. Sig- 
nore. In the meantime the Giant might 
die. He seems to be bleeding to death. 
He was so kind to me. Signore, I must save 
him if I can.” 

“Then let me help thee.” 

The Count knelt down on the stones and 
with his one hand tried to adjust the awk- 
wardly placed bandage. 

“Your lordship is hurt,” remonstrated 
Gigi. “Please do not try to help me. I 
shall do quite well alone.” 

“It is almost done now. There, good 
fellow,” as the Giant groaned, “we shall 
soon finish. Is this thine only shirt, my 
boy ? ” He glanced at Gigi ’s brown chest and 
back, where the muscles stood out so firmly. 

“ Si, signore; but what matter? It is not 
cold, and even if it had been I should have 
given it to the Giant.” 

The big soldier now lay quiet, apparently 
in stupor. 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 55 

The Count found himself weaker than he 
had thought. His lame arm pained him in 
the improvised sling he had made of his 
handkerchief. He leaned back against the 
wall and idly watched Gigi’s face. The 
forehead was broad and white at the temples 
when he swept his black curls hastily back, 
as was Gigi’s habit when anything puzzled 
or troubled him. His eyes were brown, 
large and intelligent, quite imlike the usual 
expression of a peasant boy; yet such, 
judging from his clothes, he certainly was. 
His nose was delicately formed, lightly 
aquiline, and his mouth was full and yet 
refined. The Count examined him, first a 
little indifferently, then with sudden inter- 
est. 

“IVe seen thee before!’' he said. 

“It may be. Signore.” Gigi began to 
feel sick and faint. The lack of food, the 
weary marches over a burning country, the 
excitement of the battle, the knowledge 
that the Giant, his one friend, lay there, 
unconscious, were having their effect. Would 
it be possible to get a drink of water? O 
for a drop, just a drop, to cool his tongue I 


56 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

“It may be, sir,” he repeated, and the words 
seemed to be revolving in his mind, over 
and over. 

“How didst thou come here? Who art 
thou?” continued the Coimt, showing an 
interest surprising to himself. Why should 
he speak twice to a peasant boy? He had 
two hundred such lads employed upon his 
fields, and he did not know one from the 
other, yet this boy’s face was familiar. 

Gigi followed the movements of a nun 
who was coming his way. She had a large 
flask of water. The Count’s persistent 
questions annoyed him. He was so thirsty, 
so thirsty ! Zt ! she was turning away ! No, 
she had paused to give a drink to a man. 

“I! I am only Garibaldi’s drummer 
boy,” he replied, and sprang up to meet 
the nun. She had a terra-cotta cup in her 
hand. Pouring from the flask the last drop 
it contained, she gave it to him, smiling 
pityingly at the boy so out of harmony with 
his grim surroundings. 

Gigi took the cup, put it eagerly to his 
lips, and prepared to drink it all in one gulp. 
A weak voice behind him called: “Water, 











m 








:' <• * 


. . s 


TERRA COTTA JARS 


f 


# 






r 





t • 


V A 




• / 

•j 

* i ^ 

* ; 

* .• •• / 


s’ • 

» t . 

I 

I 

I 

t* 

A 




V 


I f 


4 


» - 

» 



1 


^ • 






I 


I 


< 


I 


I 


I 


i ♦ 





f 




» 



•“«» 

■ 



» 



« 




I 


; 


I 


f 


I 


I 




4 




I 




% 


< 


% 





0^ 


f 




9 


4 




n % 


t 








I I 


f 


> 


4 


« 



Gigi the Hero of Sicily 57 

Suora, water! For the love of God, give 
me water!’' 

It was the Giant, sane and conscious. 
With a mighty effort Gigi withdrew the cup 
from his burning lips. “Take this, old fel- 
low; here is water.” 

After the Giant had drained the refresh- 
ing liquid Gigi turned appealing eyes on the 
nun. 

“Is there no more. Sister? I, too, am 
thirsty.” 

“There is plenty out yonder at the foun- 
tain in the Piazza.” 

“But I dare not leave him.” He pointed 
to the Giant, now sleeping quietly. 

“I will stay with him. Run along and 
drink to thy heart’s content.” 

Not waiting a second permission, Gigi 
ran swiftly out through the gateway, along 
the narrow street to the Piazza. Burying 
his face in the stream, he drank greedily. 

The Coimt had watched the little scene 
from his vantage point by the wall. No 
detail had escaped him. He rose slowly, as 
the mm commenced to unwind the Giant’s 
bandages. “You have supplies of clothing 


58 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

for the poor at the Convent, Suora?’’ he 
asked, respectfully. 

The nun did not raise her head. Her 
white hands busied themselves with the 
bandages. She nodded. 

“Then please see that the lad has a new 
shirt — ^two, please.” The Coimt could not 
conceive of an existence with only one 
shirt! He dropped a gold piece on her 
black gown, and she bowed again without 
showing her face. 

“ It must be time for the General’s ban- 
quet,” Coimt Romoli smiled dryly, partly 
at the anticipated feast, partly at the un- 
usual interest he had shown in a boy who 
had tom up his last shirt to save a friend. 
“How he wanted that water! His eyes 
glistened, and his hands fairly clutched the 
cup. Yet he gave it to the Giant !” 

Stopping in an archway, where he caught 
the cool breeze from the sea, the Coimt took 
out a silver cigarette case, lit a cigarette and 
puffed thoughtfully. “ I’ll look that boy up 
again,” he said, and went in to join Gari- 
baldi at a fmgal dinner. 


CHAPTER VII 


But the Count did not see Gigi again. 
More important affairs than those concern- 
ing the peasant boy occupied his attention, 
for Francis II, King of Naples, a tyrant, but, 
like most tyrants and oppressors, a coward 
when brave men opposed him, was thor- 
oughly frightened by Garibaldi’s conquests 
of Palermo and the fortress at Milazzo. 
Posthaste, he sent over some ships from 
Naples with orders to acknowledge his de- 
feat. One sunny day, a week after Gari- 
baldi took possession of the old castle. 
Count Romoli and the other officers and 
soldiers of the conquered army marched 
from the small seaside town and were borne 
out to the white-sailed vessels in little 
boats. After that triumph General Garibaldi 
marched on without further trouble through 
Sicily, and with him went the Volunteers, 
with Gigi at their head proudly beating his 
drum. The Giant, who had an iron consti- 
tution, recovered quickly from his wound 


6o Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

and was able to go on with his companions, 
to Gigi’s great delight. 

Sicily was conquered, but the King still 
held court at Naples. Garibaldi felt that 
his victory would not be complete imtil 
Naples, too, acknowledged Victor Emman- 
uel of Savoy, the King; imtil southern Italy 
joined the federation which was to become 
United Italy. Over the stones and dust 
of Calabria, through mountain passes and 
olive-clad valleys, Gigi marched. At night 
his feet were torn and bleeding. When they 
camped at the close of a long day’s march 
he unwound the long strips of heavy cotton 
cloth, serving to bind up his wounds and 
protect them from fresh injury, washed his 
feet, and oiled them with the imguent which 
the Giant carried in his pocket. The new 
shirts were the chief comfort of Gigi’s ex- 
istence at present. Certainly he had little 
else to make him happy — ^tiresome marches 
in broiling sunshine and little food, and 
that of the plainest kind. A bunch of half- 
ripe grapes, a handful of purple figs plucked 
from a tree by the roadside, a crust of bread 
and a drink of water did not go far toward 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 6i 

satisfying a hungry boy’s appetite. Fortu- 
nately for himself, he knew nothing of 
luxury, and roast beef, pies, and sweets 
would have been but names to him. Under 
these circumstances a lively pink shirt and 
a blue one of brilliant hue, whole, with but- 
tons, were novelties not to be despised. 
There was only one affliction — ^these lovely 
colors faded when the garments were 
washed and hung up in the stm ! 

“Try drying them in the shade,” sug- 
gested the Giant, good-naturedly, when 
Gigi exhibited his blue shirt rapidly becom- 
ing white. “If thou didst not wash it so 
often it would not fade,” he added, phil- 
osophically, glancing down at his own at- 
tire. He gave a long pull at his stumpy 
clay pipe, sending out huge wreaths of blue 
smoke which circled aroimd him and floated 
away into the still air to be caught among 
the spiked leaves of the Fichi d ’India. The 
ground was covered with the prickly shrub, 
making progress difficult for the soldiers. 

Gigi smiled. “They don’t look as if 
they ’d seen water very lately. ’ ’ He glanced 
pointedly at the Giant’s trousers. 


62 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

The big man smoked on placidly. 
‘‘There's a brook over yonder, sonny. I’d 
advise thee to look it up. As far as my 
trousers are concerned, they’re exactly the 
color I admire.” 

Gigi’s merry laugh struck the air like the 
sound of a silver bell. It was clear and genu- 
ine, and so boyish that the Giant was fasci- 
nated and removed his pipe from his lips 
and thoughtfully regarded the figure making 
its way through the scrubby imderbrush. 
He knocked out the gray ashes, mingled 
with occasional sparks of fire, from his pipe, 
against a sharp comer of stone. 

“That boy’s a mystery to me,” he medi- 
tated. “His everlasting washing is so dif- 
ferent from anything I ever knew. These 
clothes of mine haven’t been in a bath for 
months, and I don’t mind. And his face 
and manner! I don’t know what to make 
of it.” 

While the Giant studied over the peculiar 
traits of Gigi, especially in regard to his 
unusual cleanliness, Gigi was dipping his 
garment into the brook, lifting it up and 
down, knocking it against the stones, and 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 63 

wringing it out v/ith his strong brown hands, 
while the crystal drops fell to the ground 
like liquid diamonds. Hanging it up, with 
careful thought for shade, he sought a 
comer beneath a tall cactus and was soon 
sound asleep. Garibaldi had given orders 
that the men rest during the heated hours 
of the day, in order that they might march 
more quickly when the cool evening came. 

It was late in the afternoon when Gigi 
awoke with the buzzing of voices in his ears. 
Men were talking in low tones, but very dis- 
tinctly, and he could hear every word. At 
first, being stupefied by sleep, he did not 
comprehend the full meaning of their con- 
versation, but gradually it dawned upon him 
that a conspiracy was being formed. The 
life of Garibaldi, whom the soldiers worship- 
ed as an angel, was being plotted against. 
Trembling in every limb with excitement, 
he crept nearer to the tall, broad-leaved 
cactus and peeped through its interstices. 
He could see the faces of two men ; there was 
evidently a third, hidden by a plant. His 
voice was not plainly heard, but he seemed 
to be a person of importance, for the others 


64 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

referred to him frequently and appealed to 
him for counsel or decision. As far as Gigi 
could comprehend, these men were also 
volimteers from Sicily, who had joined the 
General there, and, like their own company, 
were marching to Naples. They were tired 
of the poverty, the suffering, the lack of 
spoils. No, they were not all soldiers; one 
was very evidently a spy from Naples. He 
was speaking now. It was the third man, 
whose face he could not see. Gigi leaned 
forward eagerly, for the voice was familiar. 

“Then we are fully agreed. To-morrow 
morning Garibaldi will approach the Nea- 
politan army, encamped about twenty miles 
from here. He relies on you, trusts you, 
and all that; doesn’t he?” 

The satire, the contempt expressed in 
these words for Garibaldi’s credulity, made 
Gigi’s blood boil. He clinched his hands in 
anger. 

“And after that?” 

The stranger evidently lit another cigar; 
Gigi heard the snap of the match. He was 
very deliberate about it, for it was a full 
minute before he replied. 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 65 

'‘After that comes the most dangerous 
move in the game, but with courage and a 
cool head it can be managed. The King is 
marching south to meet Garibaldi, probably 
in three or four days. You must rejoin the 
Garibaldians, push your way to the front, 
and under pretense of bravery strike down 
Garibaldi. I cannot tell you how to do this. 
The details you must arrange. But it must 
be done.” 

Gigi saw now that they were ruffians of 
the worst type, bandits, probably, from the 
far-away lonely sections of Italy; men to 
whom crime was play and human suffering 
diversion. They would stop at nothing. 
Their faces were low-browed and brutal. 
Their hands were broad and thick. 

“And how much are we to get for it? It 
will be dangerous business. Should Gari- 
baldi catch us our lives would go out as 
quickly as the flame dies from your match.” 

“No doubt. Garibaldi can be a devil as 
well as an angel. Providence has provided 
him with both natures. But he will not 
catch you if you are careful and wise. 
There must be no foolhardiness.” 


66 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

' 'No ! No ! ’ ' exclaimed the men. 

What could he do? Nothing. In the 
presence of these strong men Gigi's boyish 
efforts to protect the General whom he so 
dearly loved would be worse than futile; 
they would expose himself and destroy the 
last hope of warning Garibaldi. In spite 
of his exertions to keep control of himself 
Gigi groaned. The men sprang up hastily, 
made a search among the cacti, but dis- 
covered no one. Gigi crouched low on the 
grotmd. If they found him he must surely 
die. A stroke of the knife stuck in the 
ruffian’s belt would be sufficient to end his 
existence. 

'Tt was only a goat,” said one, with an 
air of relief ; but warned by the fright of the 
moment they moved a little away, just so far 
that Gigi could not hear any more of their 
conversation. It was useless to try to get 
closer. The slightest crackle of a dry 
branch beneath his bare foot would arouse 
them. Stunned by the awful plot disclosed 
to him, Gigi waited there until the men 
should go away. One idea possessed him — 
he must save Garibaldi at any cost. They 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 67 

might cut him to pieces — ^and they imdoubt- 
edly would if he got in their way — ^but they 
should not touch one hair of the head of 
Garibaldi, the idol of his troops, the deliverer 
of the poor, the protector of women and 
children. In Gigi now there was aroused 
the spirit which makes martyrs of men and 
gives them courage to face indescribable 
dangers for the sake of those whom they 
love. 

Still the men talked on. Gigi thought 
impatiently that they would never stop ; he 
was anxious to get the news to the General, 
to warn him of the plot against his life. 
The sim, a burning ball of fire, sank lower 
and lower. The Fichi d ’India cast long, 
jagged shadows over the parched earth. 
There was that stillness in the air which 
comes at simset. Gigi could hear the ripple 
of the brook over the stones, and the shrill 
twitter of a late summer insect cut upon his 
nerves like a knife. His muscles grew stiff 
from being so long compressed in one posi- 
tion; he felt very tired and every bone 
ached. Yet he dared not move. 

As the sim dropped down below the 


68 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

horizon a chill breeze swept over the plain. 
It struck Gigi painfully, and he felt a shiver 
run through him. In tropical countries it 
is not unusual to have a very hot day fol- 
lowed by a cold night. Then the worst 
possible thing happened — ^the most unex- 
pected and the most dangerous. Gigi felt 
a tickling in his nose and throat. In vain 
he pressed his hand against his face, in vain 
he held his breath. It was coming — ^he 
could not stop it — it was there ! He sneezed 
violently, helplessly, not once, but three 
times. As he drew his breath in sharply a 
hand grasped his pink shirt collar, a strong 
merciless hand in whose grasp he was power- 
less. He felt himself carried, as easily as 
a man carries a child, through the small 
forest of cacti. He was laid down in the 
midst of a cleared spot about ten feet 
square. He noted that there were some 
trees near by, scrubby pines, with branches 
well trimmed, leaving green, tasseled tops, 
which the cool wind tossed to and fro. He 
was surprised that he noticed this, for he 
realized his great danger. He knew that 
the life of a boy who had overheard their 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 69 

vile schemes had no value to such men as 
these three rascals. They would snuff it out 
with no more thought than they bestowed 
upon the candle extinguished at bedtime. 
One of them stood over him, firmly holding 
his arm — ^the precious pink shirt was split 
down the back. The other two were seated 
on the ground. One of them took his 
cigar from his mouth. 

'‘How long have you been there, and how 
much have you heard, yoimgster?’" he said, 
in a low soft drawl. 

Gigi looked up, startled, into the spy’s 
face. It was that of his own father! 


CHAPTER VIII 


For a few seconds the two faced each 
other, the father not less surprised than his 
son. Both had left the village on the same 
night, each ignorant of the other’s inten- 
tions. Gigi went to Palermo, but his father 
made his way to the coast and embarked 
for Naples, where he had audience with 
some prominent officials, who received him 
as an old friend, thus demonstrating that 
he was not imknown at court — a fact which 
would have surprised no one more than his 
bright-eyed, round-faced peasant wife. Yet, 
in these days of intrigue mysteries were not 
imcommon, and many a courtier suddenly 
retired to the forests and mountains for 
reasons best known to himself, reasons 
which made a few years of seclusion desir- 
able and necessary. 

At first the father frowned at Gigi, so 
helpless in the grasp of the powerful niffian ; 
then he laughed — a loud guffaw. He re- 
placed his cigar and talked with his teeth 

70 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 71 

closed upon it, an old habit of his when 
something important was about to occur; 
Gigi recognized it at once and trembled. 
He was far more afraid of his father’s anger 
than he was of the brigand’s strength. A 
white, cold, cruel anger was that of Romeo 
Scotta, an anger hesitating at nothing. He 
would not spare his own child if he had be- 
come familiar with his secrets. 

'‘So, young man, I leave thee at home 
and I find thee here. Dost love me so much 
that thou hast followed me ? Answer ! ’ ’ 

“I have been in Garibaldi’s army, Babbo,” 
replied Gigi, his face grown strangely pallid. 
The darkness was settling down rapidly 
over the country, for in Southern climes 
there is little twilight. Gigi felt as if the 
darkness were shrouding his soul. 

“With Garibaldi! In company with the 
riffraff of society I Good companionship I ’ ’ 
Gigi began to rebel. What better so- 
ciety had his father provided for him in 
these sixteen years of his life ? With shrewd 
perception he began to understand that his 
father had been playing a false part among 
the simple-hearted peasants. Like a flash. 


72 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

he remembered certain incidents, unnoticed 
at the time, but now significant. 

'‘My companions are no worse than those 
I have always had,'’ he replied, sullenly. 

To his surprise his father smiled. “Thou 

art right, Gigi, but I had intended ” 

He stopped suddenly, conscious of the 
intense curiosity manifested in the faces 
and even attitudes of the two ruffians. 
“That is neither here nor there. We will 
not discuss it now. What hast thou been 
doing with the Red Devil, and how comest 
thou here ? How much of our conversation 
hast overheard? Tell the truth, now, figlio 
mio, or it will go hard with thee.” 

“Did I ever tell anything else?” inquired 
Gigi, proudly. 

“No,” acknowledged the father. “Thou 
wast ever a truthful beggar. Hurry! it is 
getting dark, and we must be off.” 

“The moon rises at eight,” suggested one 
of the men. 

“All the better. It will show us the road, 
but it will also show us to others. Speak 
quickly, boy.” 

“I came to Palermo on foot; in the road I 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 73 

fainted, and some one carried me into a 
beautiful villa. There a lady gave me soup 
and bread; she was kind to me.’' 

His father frowned again. '‘Near Paler- 
mo, dost thou say? Well, no matter. It 
is of no importance, but — in passing didst 
notice the name of the villa?” 

“I read it on the gate posts, as I came 
out — ^Villa Romoli. ’ ’ 

“I thought so. The fates willed it. Did 
she ask thee any questions? Bah! We 
are wasting time.” 

Gigi put his lips close to his father’s ear. 
The man who held him had long since re- 
leased him, realizing the relations between 
the boy and the Neapolitan spy. “She 
tried to take my mother’s picture from 
me.” 

His father’s eyes gleamed. “Didst bring 
it with thee?” he hissed, like an angry 
serpent. ‘ ‘Where is it ? ” 

“Here.” Gigi touched his chest. 

Romeo Scotta drew a long breath. For- 
timately the darkness hid his excitement 
from his companions. 

‘ ‘And then ? Hurry, Gigi, htury 1 ’ ’ 


74 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

“Then I ran away from her, and went to 
Garibaldi in Palermo/^ 

His father coolly struck a match and re- 
lit his cigar, which was extinguished. In 
the tiny flame his clear-cut face showed no 
sign of agitation; it was as cold and in- 
scrutable as ever. 

“Go on!” he commanded. 

“That is all. I am the drummer of the 
First Volunteer Corps. I was in the battle 
of Milazzo, and I am going to Naples.” 

His father smiled evilly. “That remains 
to be seen. Didst thou hear what we were 
saying?” 

“I did.” 

Signor Scotta turned to the two men, 
and they conversed in low tones, keeping 
suspicious eyes on Gigi for fear he should 
nm away. To tell the truth, the boy did not 
comprehend that he had any chance for 
escape. Ever since he was a small child 
his father had been the arbiter of the family. 
No question had been decided except by 
him; even the gay head-kerchief worn by 
his wife had been chosen by her husband at 
the booth of the country fair, and the 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 75 

vegetables for the simple “Minestrone’’ 
were according to his taste. Only little 
Iva could command her father, and to her 
touch he responded. The soft baby fingers 
drove out the evil spirit which seemed to 
possess him at times, and which made him 
at once the tyrant and the terror of the en- 
tire population in the village. Gigi was 
assured that his fate lay in his father’s hands 
and, since this was so, he must submit. 

His father sauntered slowly to his side. 

“Thou hast heard our secrets, Gigi. Wilt 
give me thy word that thou wilt not dis- 
close them? If so, thou shalt be free to re- 
turn to thy post, if it pleases thee. If not, 
thou mayest go with me. I can assure thee 
a fortune and the prospect of a happy life. 
I intended to take thee to Naples next year, 
anyway. I will do so now. Thy father is 
known at court, he has influence there. 
Thou shalt be respected. A brilliant, suc- 
cessful career awaits thee if thou wilt come 
with me. If thou givest me thy word not 
to disclose this plot I shall believe it.” 

There was a new tone in his father’s 
voice, of supplicative, tender pleading. It 


76 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

moved Gigi greatly. He had never heard 
it before. Perhaps his father loved him, 
after all. In Romeo Scotta’s heart arose a 
longing for his son, who looked so much 
like his mother. 

“Wilt promise?’' he persisted. 

Gigi hesitated. On one side was his 
father, whom he had feared, but had ad- 
mired; on the other, he would be morally 
responsible for the cruel murder of General 
Garibaldi — only morally, for he could not 
escape from these men to give the warning; 
they would not let him go free. Even if he 
finally secured the promise of life it would 
be an everlasting stain upon his soul; he 
would have shown himself a coward, a 
traitor. It takes but a few seconds for 
many thoughts to fly through a human 
brain. His father had only time to give 
a strong puff at his long cigar when Gigi’s 
decision was made. 

“I cannot promise, father. I would 
gladly take my place at your side, if it were 
right. I should be proud and happy. But 
I cannot. To do so would be, first, to de- 
sert from my place in the Volunteer Corps, 



AN OLD SICILIAN FISHERMAN 





‘ « 




• Kt 


* •; ■■ • - ■// f*-irp'-, ■■■• • -^'jf ■^' ■ ’*- *.v 

* -'T. - , . ."'-r* 

i-f. . ‘ . .:• V-.. , . 

XU, - - ■•,.• ' 


V J" . T’ ■• > r '• ■* '■* '■ 


f 


•* ^ «^V 

l« * '’ 


. y 


^ . 




-A\v^ ^ 


i. 


i? 


‘A : 

« • 




* ■ ~A • * 

■* .. * ,. - ..- I 

^ ■ ‘>a*' * . 

» ' i* ..A . • ' ^ ^ * I • ■ 

rill- • V* *. .‘•^ • £ 52 iSK<'' - »‘^' •» 

* 1 lt : 


(f!.* 


^lu 



* # ' sr^'.^M 




'*' k* 


.' ' l^h 









— 

f 


L# •^ * •» *- \ ^00^0 f • f, . * - 


' ^,*'••*^ 1 -' ■ •"■ ,-'w ' .. -•■ r-I r-'5't vr,, - 




/> ■ 


1 « 






I r N- 


• , «Tv r i' ‘ 0 » 




Gigi the Hero of Sicily 77 

and then, worse still, to be a traitor to what 
I know to be right/' 

There was an ominous pause. The man’s 
cigar looked like a glow-worm in the dark- 
ness. The rim of the moon was rising over 
the horizon at the border of the cactus- 
covered plain. The wind sighed as it swept 
past Gigi. He shivered at its chill touch. 
Signor Scotta paced back and forth, think- 
ing deeply. A new admiration for his son 
filled his heart. Yet he could not force him. 
Gigi would go straight to Garibaldi with 
the news. If the plot failed he would lose a 
thousand good gold pieces, which he very 
much needed if he were to take once more 
his position in the world. Besides, his 
honor required that he should carry out the 
scheme and rid the King of Naples of the 
brave leader of the opposing troops whom 
he so much feared. Garibaldi out of the 
way, there was no one so daring, so intrepid 
as he, to fill the vacant place. Gigi’s ideas 
of honor and those of his father were based 
on totally different ideals. 

He motioned to the taller of the two 
bandits. 


78 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

“He refuses, as I expected my son would 
do,’^ he remarked, with a pride curiously 
inconsistent with the circumstances. 

“What then?’' 

“Carry out your plan. For forty-eight 
hours he must not be found. But he must 
not be injured. Do you hear? I require 
him from your hands unhurt. And do not 
alarm him more than is necessary.” 

The brigand pulled the long lock of black 
hair hanging over his forehead. 

“Padrone! Master!” he said, meaning 
that the commands should be carried out. 

Signor Scotta threw away the stub of his 
cigar. 

“Addio, Gigi!” he called, waving his hand 
to the boy. Then, whether in response to 
some glow of natural parental affection, or 
from some lower motive, he threw his arms 
around his son’s neck and kissed him on 
both cheeks. 

As soon as his figure disappeared Gigi’s 
courage returned. His father’s influence 
no longer cowed him. Leaping quickly to 
his feet, he started to run through the un- 
derbrush as swiftly as was possible. With 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 79 

wicked words on their lips the men pursued 
him, seized him, and boimd him tightly 
with a heavy cord produced from the pocket 
of one of them. Laying a broad hand over 
his mouth, the brigand said in a low voice, 
“If thou wilt not shout I will not gag thee.” 

“I will not,” promised Gigi, ready to 
yield a point now that he might gain one 
later. 

Lifting him to his back, the tall man 
bore him away, picking out a path between 
the prickly shrubs. The moon’s full roimd 
face looked down good-naturedly upon the 
earth and on the tragedy about to be en- 
acted. 


CHAPTER IX 


“There, mother, weVe brought thee a 
new son,’' remarked the brigand with grim 
humor, depositing Gigi on the floor as care- 
lessly as if he had been a bag of meal. 
“Take good care of him, or it will be the 
worse for thee,” he added threateningly, 
shaking his black mane in mueh the same 
manner as a huge mastiff would have done. 

A woman sitting in front of a blazing 
wood fire took her pipe from her mouth and 
asked, “By whose orders?” 

Her son bent down and whispered in her 
ear. There were only a few words, but they 
had a magical effect. She rose, and Gigi 
saw that her form was bent, not so much 
from age, for her hair was still glossy and 
black, as from disease, contracted, no doubt, 
by long residence in the malarial plains. 
She walked to Gigi’s side and examined him 
with eyes of eagle sharpness. 

“He’s a handsome lad,” she said. 

The men laughed. “Isn’t that just like 

8o 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 8i 

a woman! Let a boy have curly hair and 
bright eyes and she likes him at once. It’s 
all right, mother ; give him something to eat, 
if thou wishest, but on thy life do not let 
him get away within the next forty-eight 
hours — ^then he will come himself to fetch 
him. Bring us food, mother. The lad can 
wait ; he has plenty of time before him, but 
we have a good night’s work ahead of us.” 

They threw themselves down at full 
length before the fire, as if grateful for its 
warmth after the chill of the marshy land, 
and in an instant, as it seemed to Gigi, 
they were snoring loudly. From this slum- 
ber the woman wakened them, having placed 
wine, bread, and some cold goat’s meat on 
the table. If Gigi had not known that they 
were men he would certainly have thought 
them animals, they ate so voraciously and 
in such furious haste. No words were 
spoken, for they were evidently in great 
anxiety to leave. With a nod to the wom- 
an, bestowing a last look of warning upon 
her, they walked heavily out, and their 
footsteps were soon lost in the distance. 

Maria closed the door loudly, drew a 


82 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

heavy bar of wood across it, and returned 
to the fireside. She seemed to be lost in 
thought. Clasping her hands on her knees, 
she looked steadily at the blue and golden 
flames of the big pine knots. Gigi had 
plenty of time to examine his prison, and 
his eyes were not idle while his brain was 
searching vainly for some means of escape. 
He was in a house which consisted of only 
one room on the ground floor. There was 
an upper room ; a ladder led to it, and that 
it was a sleeping apartment he concluded 
from the fact that there were no beds visible 
in the lower one. The floors were of mud, 
hardened to the consistence of cement. 
The walls and ceiling were rudely plastered, 
and on them, in free hand, landscapes, por- 
traits of men and women, a boat with three- 
cornered white sail upon a brilliant blue 
sea, animals and birds were mingled together 
in grotesque confusion. Certainly, though 
these decorations were not works of art, 
they were not without life and feeling. 
A cherub, rosy-cheeked, with fat arms 
overflowing with a mass of roses, smiled 
down upon Gigi, and tmconsciously, forget- 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 83 

ful of the pain which the cords gave him, he 
smiled back, the cherub looked so much 
like Iva probably sleeping soundly in her 
bed in the mountain village. 

The room was very large, and the two 
candles on the table, still strewn imtidily 
with the yemains of the meal the two 
brigands had eaten, cast only a small circle 
of light. Still, Gigi could see enough to ex- 
cite his wonder and surprise. In this lonely 
hut, miles from another house, were articles 
of luxury such as he had never seen or even 
dreamed of. There were pieces of furniture 
elaborately carved, one a huge sideboard 
which might once have adorned a princely 
palace. On it, an incongruous combina- 
tion, were pieces of china of the rudest 
description. Bits of the comers were broken 
off, and the polish was worn and dull. On 
a chair lay a pile of costly silks, women’s 
garments, slung down as carelessly as if 
they had no value. They glistened in the 
dim glow of the candlelight, with shimmers 
of rose and turquoise and crimson, with 
here and there a soft touch of ivory tints — 
masses of old and rare lace — a strange sight 


84 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

as they fell upon the earthen floor. In the 
comer Gigi thought he saw a figure in armor, 
but he was not sure, for the shadows there 
were too deep to show objects distinctly. 
It was a queer place, and the boy's head be- 
gan to whirl with the excitement of the past 
few hours, his own physical weariness, and 
the mystery of his present surroundings. 
One thing stmck him as very singular : there 
was only one door to this house, and it had 
no windows at all. Night and day this 
woman must live by artificial light. But 
there were narrow loopholes cut in the wall 
like those of a fortress. 

His wandering eye caught that of the 
woman. 

“I had forgotten thee," she said, in a dry 
hard voice. ‘ ‘Art hungry ? ’ ' 

Gigi nodded, with decision. He was very 
hungry. 

“Eat, then." She motioned to the table. 

“I cannot rise. Signora," he answered. 

“Ah, tme! I had not thought about the 
cords. Wait, I will cut them. Why should 
I fear a boy like thee? Thou couldst not 
escape didst thou wish to do so. There, 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 85 

rise! Dost feel better? Stretch thy long 
limbs, now that they are free. Yes, thou 
resemblest him — ^much — ^but thy mother 
more.” 

She mumbled something in a strange 
dialect which Gigi could not understand, 
and once more motioned him to go to the 
table, while she again seated herself and 
was lost in her\houghts. 

Gigi needed no urging. Little by little 
the food disappeared, till only bones and 
crumbs remained to tell the tale. Per- 
ceiving that the woman did not pay much 
attention to him, he was meditating a wild 
bolt for escape, when his glance fell upon 
an object he had not seen before. It was 
a large bulldog lying perfectly still on the 
floor, near the one entrance. At first Gigi 
thought he was asleep. Then he saw that 
the animal was watching him closely, eyeing 
every move with an intentness that was 
terrifying. Had the dog been asleep when 
the brigands entered, or was he so perfectly 
trained that a nod, a glance or motion from 
his master, had been sufficient to put him 
on guard? Gigi grew cold at heart. How 


86 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

many other persons had that motionless dog 
watched with that awful glance ? Had 
they escaped? If not, where were they? 
And to whom belonged these satins, these 
chairs and sofas, so out of place in this room, 
with their coverings of rich damask, their 
heavy gilding and graceful forms? Cer- 
tainly not to that woman, yonder, who 
wore the rude costume of the peasant. 

To some boys the strangeness, the mys- 
tery, would have been overpowering. Not 
so to Gigi. Only a moment his courage 
failed. Then he began to feel hopeful again 
in spite of the dog. He went over to the 
fireside and sat down on the floor by the 
woman. The dog did not move. Evi- 
dently it was his part to guard the door. 
So long as the prisoner did not approach 
it he was free to follow his own will. 

“Where am I?” Gigi asked. 

“If thou dost not know, it is not my affair 
to tell thee,’' she replied, with certain cold- 
ness, yet studying his face with earnest gaze. 
“Thy father will tell thee all that is neces- 
sary, when he comes.” 

“Do you know my father?” 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 87 

‘‘Yes. I have known him for many 
years.’' 

“For many years!” echoed Gigi. 

“I knew thee when thou wast a baby, and 
it was I who nursed thee when thy mother 
died, nursed thee here, in this very house, 
for a whole year; then thy father took thee 
away from me. I cried that day, but my 
tears, for that or anything else, have long 
since been dried. ” She spoke in a singsong, 
monotonous tone, like a person who has 
been much alone. 

Gigi’s eyes sparkled like stars. “Did you 
know my mother?” he asked, awestruck. 

“I held her in my arms when she was 
dying. I knew her, yes, and loved her.” 

Gigi had forgotten everything, now, out- 
side of this one room; Garibaldi and his 
danger, the Giant, and his anxiety when 
Gigi did not return — ^all these were as 
dreams, compared with this one thought. 
The woman had known his mother, and 
loved her I 

“Tell me about her,” he urged, coming 
nearer to the stranger. She put her hand 
on his shoulder. 


88 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

“There is little to tell. Has thy father 
never spoken of her?’' 

“Never. Once I found a picture in a 
drawer, and I asked him who it was. He 
was angry at first, and then he said it was 
my mother. I have it here. Tell me. Is 
it like her?” 

He felt for the string, but it was not there. 
Nervously he examined his clothes. The 
miniature was gone. 

“I had it to-night,” he exclaimed, with 
such excitement that the bulldog raised 
his head and growled, the first sound he had 
made since the brigands carried Gigi in. 

“Down, Leone,” commanded the woman 
sharply. The dog crouched obediently. 

“Thou hast lost it among the cacti. 
Never mind, do not grieve. To-morrow 
we will search for it. Sit down and I will 
tell thee all I can remember. About seven- 
teen years ago thy father came here, bring- 
ing his wife with him, a young and beautiful 
woman. He seemed to admire her greatly 
and always treated her well, consulting her 
about many things, but never telling her 
what his business was. ” 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 89 

“What was it?” Gigi asked, but she 
seemed not to have heard his question. 

“When he came home from his journeys 
away he would bring her jewels and silks. 
She and I would make the stuff into gowns, 
for he wished her to be handsomely dressed, 
even though she lived in an out-of-the-way 
place. I served her, and cooked for her, 
and combed and arranged her fine hair. 
The pearls he brought her I twined in her 
braids. When she was dressed she would 
sit by the door and watch for him, some- 
times for weeks together. He came back 
always at irregular intervals, and they were 
so happy together. Then, one night, you 
were bom. Thy father was off on one of 
his journeys, and thy mother and I were 
alone. A week later thy mother died, and 
I took care of her, as I have said.” 

Gigi did not remove his eyes from her 
face. He drew a long breath. “Is that 
all?” he asked, when she paused. 

“All.” 

“Was my mother a lady, or was she — 
was she ” 

“Like me? I never knew who thy mother 


90 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

was, but her hands had never known work, 
and her linen was fine and soft, and em- 
broidered with a coronet and her monogram. 
Wouldst like to see her jewels?” 

Gigi nodded. All this was very mys- 
terious. What was the object of his father’s 
journeys? Where had he obtained jewels 
and satins? If he was so rich — and Gigi 
had already inferred that his father owned 
this house and all that was in it, these 
people were merely his servants, his tools — 
why had they lived in such poverty all these 
years, in the seclusion of the mountains? 
He remembered now that his father had 
often been away from home, sometimes for 
months together. 

The woman, Maria, climbed the step- 
ladder leading to the upper floor, and re- 
turned in a few minutes bearing a casket of 
ebony, decorated with exquisite carvings 
and silver ornaments. With a golden key 
she opened the casket, disclosing a large 
quantity of jewelry, rings, brooches, and 
necklaces. Gigi ran the precious objects 
through his fingers, admiring them with all 
his heart. Diamonds, lustrous, flashing 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 91 

back the firelight in myriad hues of brilliant 
color; long strings of milky pearls, costly 
enough for a king’s ransom; emeralds set 
in gems ; sapphires the tint of the blue Med- 
iterranean; odd golden ornaments of rich 
design — all these lay together in one glit- 
tering heap of wealth, more wealth than 
Gigi’s simple boyish mind could calculate. 
Until long afterward he did not comprehend 
that the pretty baubles belonged to him by 
right. At this moment he was imagining 
how a woman with the face pictured in his 
mother’s miniatiu'e must have looked when 
she wore a gown of white satin and these 
pearls. He had heard that queens wore 
such jewels, but his mother — in his wildest 
imaginings he had never fancied her like a 
queen. She had been to him a loving, 
sweet-faced woman stooping to kiss her son, 
and he preferred to think of her thus. 

He gave the casket back into Maria’s hand 
and she set it on the table, leaving it open. 
The candlelight played among the diamonds 
and rubies. The air of the room had grown 
suddenly very oppressive. The fire died 
down and smoldered sullenly among its 


92 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

ashes. The dog left his post on the floor 
and ran to the door, cowering down and 
whining, begging to be let out. He ran 
quickly up and down, now fawning at 
Maria’s feet, again scratching and whining 
at the door. 

“What is the matter?” asked the woman, 
stooping to pat the animal, who was trem- 
bling in every limb. Then she, too, began 
to tremble. 

“Dost see a spirit, Leone? Ah! Ma- 
donna mia! what is going to happen?” 

A deep rumble as loud as thunder rolled 
around them ; the earth shook violently ; the 
house rocked to and fro in the convulsion 
of nature, and was thrown upward with a 
startling motion. Chairs fell with loud 
crash ; the tall carved sideboard lurched for- 
ward, but recovered its place as the seismic 
wave receded; dishes fell to the floor, and 
the gems in the carved casket were scattered 
in the corners, where they lay sparkling like 
shattered rainbows. 

Gigi sprang to his feet, conscious of the 
great danger in which they were, and yet 
realizing, in a flash of memory, that he had 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 93 

work to do and must escape if possible. 
Another and another earthquake shock 
followed. The woman, frightened beyond 
possibility of speech, flung herself upon her 
knees in front of a crucifix on the wall, and 
the dog, no longer brave, hid his head in 
her print gown, in alarm at the terrible 
phenomenon. The next day Gigi wondered 
why he had not been more afraid. At the 
time, he forgot the earthquake in his con- 
sciousness that the moment for escape had 
come. Boldly he threw down the wooden 
bar that held the door fastened and walked 
out into the darkness of night. The moon 
was hidden by a heavy black cloud. To 
Gigi’s heated imagination its form was that 
of a mighty chariot drawn by four huge 
beasts. Flashes of lightning broke through 
the darkness every few minutes, showing 
the mass of gigantic cacti which impeded 
the way. The rain commenced to fall in 
torrents, a tropical storm following in the 
wake of the disastrous earthquake. 


CHAPTER X 


The Giant stretched himself, yawned 
loudly and widely, and arose. All the 
warm autumn afternoon he had slept, 
soimdly, dreamlessly. 

‘'Where’s the Babe?” he inquired of a 
passing comrade. 

“Haven’t seen him since he went off 
yonder with his blue shirt on his arm and 
his pink one on his back. ” The man known 
as the Chicken — for what reason it was not 
clearly understood — ^grinned broadly. 

Gigi’s new shirts were the joke of the 
Volimteer Corps, just as Gigi himself was 
a general favorite. They were the only 
new garments owned by any one of the 
soldiers, whose appearance was highly in- 
teresting and picturesque owing to the non- 
descript condition of their wardrobes. Mr. 
William Waldo Story, well known through- 
out the world as an artist of high repute, 
remarked once that the dirt of Italy was 
its picturesqueness. Mr. Story would have 

94 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 95 

been more than satisfied with the artistic 
qualities of the Sicilian Volunteers. The 
'‘Babe/' as the Giant had christened Gigi 
on that memorable day when they met Gari- 
baldi at the gate of Palermo, was hailed 
with such remarks as these, on the first 
occasion when he assumed his convent- 
made garment: “Eh, there. Babe, where’s 
yer gloves?” “Why didn’t the Sisters put 
ruffles on?” “Are they hand-embroidered?” 
Only the Giant’s strenuous efforts prevented 
the men from laying gentle but firm hands 
on Gigi and removing the offensive 
shirts. 

The Giant reflected the grin. “It’s time 
he was back. Getting dark already. As 
soon as the moon rises it’s ordered for us to 
march. I’ll make a bit of fire and put the 
pot on. The boy’ll be himgry when he 
comes. If he’s not here by that time I’ll 
go and look for him. Lazy rascal! he’s 
probably asleep. ’ ’ 

The Chicken still lingered, watching the 
big man as he gathered together some dead 
pine branches and laid them in a pile with 
extreme precision and as much care as if he 


g 6 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

were forming a design. He lit them, and 
the dry twigs snapped cheerily. 

“You’re very fond of the Babe, aren’t 
you?” queried the Chicken. 

The Giant nodded, and without making 
further reply he proceeded to grind up 
some parched com between two stones, 
browned over the fire, this served for coffee, 
and was the nearest to that refreshing bev- 
erage that the poor fellows could get. 
Garibaldi’s soldiers were at this time by no 
means living in luxury, especially the Volun- 
teers, who were outside the regular pale. 
Most of them were rough peasants, a good 
many of them criminals or escaped prison- 
ers who did not wish to disclose their resi- 
dence or identity. The Giant was not one 
of these; his life had been adventurous, 
wild, and reckless, but he had no dark, sin- 
ful days to cover up, nothing which could 
not bear the strong light of investigation. 
The Chicken’s record was decidedly shaky. 
In all the days of Garibaldi’s campaign he 
bore no other name except that bestowed 
upon him by his companions. No doubt 
one was registered somewhere professing to 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 97 

be his own, but it was not his real name. 
Yet many of these fugitives from justice 
fought bravely, showed remarkable self- 
sacrifice, and hundreds died in the service of 
their coimtry. 

The Chicken warmed his hands by the 
small fire, and shivered. “It's cold to- 
night," he remarked, “imusually cold. Some- 
how I don’t like it. It’s queer.’’ 

The Giant looked pityingly at the man’s 
simken cheeks and thin form. 

“Are you hungry?’’ he asked, suddenly. 

“’Most starved.’’ 

“Then sit right down here and eat. The 
coffee’s ready, and there’s a cabbage soup. 
I found two in a field yesterday. You’re 
welcome to a bite, only leave some for the 
boy. It doesn’t matter about me. I ain’t 
hungry. I’ll go now and look for that little 
beggar.’’ Lying boldly and boastfully, 
though reproved by a gnawing in his own 
empty stomach, the Giant strode off through 
the cacti to the brook, where he expected 
to find Gigi. “Poverino!’’ he muttered. 

The Chicken, left alone, lifted the cover 
of the earthenware pot and eagerly inhaled 


98 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

the odor. It was true that he was almost 
starved. Most of the men shunned him, 
for some unaccountable reason, and he 
lived a lonely life. He seemed to be un- 
accustomed to foraging for himself, and the 
others stripped the fields where vegetables 
were growing before he had any chance. 
Three long breaths he took of the odorous 
mixture; then sniffed the dried-com coffee, 
turned, and deliberately sat down with his 
back to temptation. When the Giant re- 
turned, after an hour’s searching for Gigi, 
he was still there. 

'T couldn’t find him,” the Giant re- 
marked, briefly. '‘He’ll turn up soon, I 
hope. The time’s short. Hope you en- 
joyed your meal, comrade,” remembering 
his duties as host. 

"I waited for you,” the Chicken replied, 
simply. 

With wide-eyed glance the Giant regarded 
him from a height of six feet four, bare- 
footed. 

"You did! Well, I’ll say you’re a gentle- 
man and belong to the nobility — ^that’s just 
what you are. Take a piece of bread, and 


ON A DUSTY ROAD 





. T ft 





’f)-” 











Gigi the Hero of Sicily 99 

dip in the pot, Chicken — it’s all the plate 
we’ve got — and eat all ye want.” 

The Chicken fell to, and ate — ^not all he 
wanted, but enough to satisfy his hunger. 
The Giant was restless, got up occasionally 
to listen for footsteps, and was disap- 
pointed when Gigi did not materialize. He 
asked every passing soldier, “Have you seen 
the Babe?” only to receive a negative 
answer, at which he shook his head. The 
order came to march. The Chicken went 
to his place, and the Giant, as slowly as pos- 
sible, did up his little kit of utensils in an 
orange-and-red handkerchief, hanging it 
from the end of his musket. Finally, forced 
to give the order to march, he took his place 
in advance of the ragged Volimteers and 
joined the regiment, his heart sinking with 
dread when he remembered that no drum- 
mer boy went with him. However, he had 
a profound respect for Gigi’s ability to take 
care of himself, and was consoled by this. 
He would probably turn up next morning, 
well and happy. 

All night long the men tramped on, 
through mud, over stones, cutting their 


loo Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

feet with sharp thorns, cowering under 
rain, and shrinking from the terrible light- 
ning. The earthquake, so perceptible im- 
der a roof, was little noticed by the soldiers 
in the open. Morning broke, gray and 
cheerless, and still they marched till orders 
came to halt and bivouac. Gigi had not 
appeared, and the combination of anxiety, 
hunger, and wet made the Giant’s gloom 
complete. To the Chicken, who approached 
him with a faint hope of a breakfast, he was 
morose, even snappy — a most imusual con- 
dition of mind for the good-natured man, 
who had never yet failed to have a kindly 
word for the Volunteers even on the most 
depressing occasions. The Chicken retired 
in good order, but speechless, and mimched 
a bit of dry crust under a rock as an excuse 
for a breakfast. 

It was during the morning that a stranger 
appeared among the Volunteers. He was 
a tall, fine-looking man, with eagle-like nose 
and firm features. He spoke freely to the 
men, said he was a Sicilian, fighting in the 
regular army, fighting for the same cause. 
This was verified by the fact that he wore 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily ioi 

the regular uniform of the Italian army 
imder the King, Victor Emmanuel II. He 
seemed to be searching for some one, 
though he made no inquiries, but examined 
each Volunteer’s face keenly. 

When the Chicken saw him he hid him- 
self more closely behind the rock and thus 
escaped notice, much to his own relief. 
When he peeped out with white face, after 
half an hour of seclusion, the man had gone 
— disappeared as quickly as he had come. 
The Chicken crept out cautiously, and again 
approached the Giant. He ventured a 
remark and was relieved to find him more 
like himself. The Giant had once more 
ceased to worry about Gigi, reflecting that 
a kind Providence or a guiding angel would 
take care of him. There were times when 
he felt that it was proper for Providence to 
take a hand in the affairs of men, and in 
spite of his apparent recklessness the Giant 
had a profoimd belief in a higher power than 
his own. 

'‘Did that man speak to you?” asked the 
Chicken. 

“Yes. He asked me how soon we should 


102 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

march. Said the King was marching down 
to meet Garibaldi, would probably do so 
after the next battle, and then would take 
the responsibility off the General’s shoulders. 
I wonder how Garibaldi will enjoy giving 
up his power as Dictator of Sicily?” he 
pondered. “Yet he says he’s done it all for 
the King, and not for his own glory. And 
I believe in Garibaldi.” 

The Chicken persisted. He was not in- 
terested in the various theories about Gen- 
eral Garibaldi’s sincerity when he declared 
that he would conquer Sicily only to resign 
it to the King of Italy. To the present 
time discussions have continued as to Gari- 
baldi’s intentions about his great conquest, 
discussions which would seem to have been 
satisfactorily decided by the General’s own 
noble actions. 

“Have you ever seen that man before?” 

“No; have you?” 

“Yes,” replied the Chicken, and his weak 
mouth trembled. 

“Afraid of him, eh?” The Giant spoke 
crisply, sharply. 

The Chicken nodded. ' ‘ I hoped I ’d never 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 103 

see him again in all my life. He’s the devil 
incarnate. Do you want to know who he 
is? — and you won’t tell? He’d kill me if 
he knew I was here and told on him. ” 

The Giant’s curiosity was aroused. ‘T’d 
like well enough to know, for he asked me a 
queer question.” 

‘‘Ah!” 

“He said, just as indifferent as if it made 
no difference to him and the other part was 
what he was interested in — ^but I know it 
wasn’t, for I’ve studied men and their queer 
ways for more’n fifty years — ^he says, ‘O, by 
the way, I’ve heard ye’ve got a little drum- 
mer boy in this corps. If he’s here I’d like 
to see him.’ ” 

“What did ye say? I hope you were 
careful. He meant something — mischief, 
no doubt, or he wouldn’t have paid any 
attention to a boy. Perhaps there’s a ran- 
som for him or something.” 

The Giant winked. 

“I says: ‘Why, yes, there’s been such 
a lad aroimd. He’s left, deserted the Vol- 
unteers, yoimg imp! Got tired of drum- 
ming and run off to his ma.’ ” 


104 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

“What did he say?’' 

“O, nothing much. Turned it off in a 
joke and talked on a few minutes, then left. 
I say, Chicken, who is he, and what did he 
want of Gigi?” 

“You won’t tell?” 

“On my honor.” The Giant made the 
sign of a cross in the air. 

“I don’t know what he wanted of the boy, 
but no good, I ’m sure. He ’s ’ ’ — ^the Chicken 
lowered his voice to a whisper — “Did you 
ever hear of Viola the Brigand?” 

“Yes.” 

“That was the man you were talking to. 
He’s the worst man I ever knew, and yet, 
in some ways, the bravest and most lov- 
able. When he lifts his finger men bow 
down, but children run and kiss his hands 
and climb up on his knee without fear.” 

“Viola the Brigand,” repeated the Giant, 
slowly, “and he going aroimd and passing 
himself off as a soldier in the regular army ! 
He’s a cool one!” 

“That he is 1” The Chicken could not re- 
press an expression of admiration at the 
boldness of the wicked, greatly feared man. 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 105 

“In Sicily, men and women shudder and 
pray when they hear the name of Viola, and 
not a house is well enough guarded to keep 
him out.” 

“That reminds me of this paper I picked 
up a day or two ago. It’s a week old.” 
The Giant extracted a soiled, torn Naples 
paper from his expansive trousers pocket. 
“Here it is: 'The government offers a re- 
ward of fifty thousand francs to the person 
who will produce before any municipal 
authorities the body of the man called 
Viola the Brigand, accused of grave crimes. ’ ’ 

The Chicken’s eyes glistened. He wet 
his lips nervously. “How much is it?” he 
cried. 

“Fifty thousand lire.” 

The Chicken leaped to his feet in excite- 
ment. “He was here, in my hands! I 
might have given him up!” 

“Hold on. Chicken,” said the Giant, 
coolly. “You can’t get him now. He’s 
far away by this time. Besides, if I were 
you, I wouldn’t enter too much into this 
affair. Your hands aren’t any too clean, 
and you might get yourself into trouble and 


io6 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

not' get the fifty thousand lire. How do 
you happen to know this rascal?'’ 

The Chicken turned pale. 

'T was in his gang, " he responded, faintly. 
“Forward ! March 1 ' ' came the order, and 
the Giant sprang up. In a few minutes, 
the troops were once more tramping pa- 
tiently northward through the mud. 


CHAPTER XI 

The morning broke, gray, gloomy, dis- 
couraging, but the soldiers were alive with 
enthusiasm, and the whole camp was astir 
early. The Giant sat on the damp ground 
near a gnarled old olive, rubbing his musket 
till it shone. The Chicken, as usual, sat be- 
side him. He had become the Giant's 
shadow, and a great deal of mirth was ex- 
cited in the company by his devotion to the 
Captain. The Chicken was so mild, so 
harmless, that the Giant pondered long 
over the fact that he had once been a mem- 
ber of the gang of brigands under the com- 
mand of bold Viola. He smoked one pipe- 
ful of tobacco in studying over the matter, 
and finally came to the conclusion that the 
Chicken must have been employed in the 
culinary or domestic department. He was a 
bom cook, but would have been more a 
hindrance than a help on Viola’s wild raids. 
The Chicken requited the Giant’s kindness 
to him by making toothsome dishes out of 

107 


io8 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

very meager supplies and by waiting on him 
whenever he could. His gaimt face was 
now partially covered with a thin, ragged 
beard; his eyes were hollow and hungry- 
looking — a fact which had distressed the 
kind-hearted Giant tmtil he discovered that 
the Chicken retained his starved appear- 
ance even after he had eaten a hearty meal. 

This was to be the last appearance of the 
Volunteer Corps. The Chicken was in- 
dustriously brushing and cleaning his Cap- 
tain’s very limited wardrobe, to make him 
as impressive as possible on this great day. 
Gigi had not been heard from, and the 
Giant resolved that as soon as he was free 
from his duties under General Garibaldi he 
would go back to the lonely plain where the 
prickly cacti grew and the brook rippled so 
cheerily, and would make a thorough 
search for the boy whom he had grown to 
love as a son. He was convinced that he 
had strayed away and been suddenly seized 
by a low fever which in the malarial marshes 
lies in wait for victims. There could be no 
other explanation of his apparent desertion. 
Gigi had been proud of his post, and had 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 109 

shown no fear even in the terrible battle of 
Milazzo, which had caused many a man to 
grow sick and pale. To-day was the last 
day on which the Volunteers would be 
needed. The fight was over; the triumph 
belonged to Garibaldi and his brave men 
the Genovesi, to the “Guide delle Alpi/’ to 
the Carabinieri, who had been so faithful to 
their General on the fields, and to the Volim- 
teers, ignorant but manly and courageous; 
but the chief honor would belong to King 
Victor Emmanuel, who was expected soon 
to take from the General his trust and as- 
sume the authority. 

It was six o’clock on the morning of the 
twenty-sixth of October, i860. The chill 
mists swept up the mountainsides and 
melted into rain, falling heavily on the huts 
of the peasants. The troops stood in order, 
with Garibaldi at their head. The famous 
General wore his customary uniform, a red 
tunic and soft hat, with trousers of coarse 
cloth. Over his head and ears he had 
bound a large silk handkerchief, knotting 
it under his chin. The bands struck up the 
royal march, and the King of Piedmont, 


no Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

soon to be the sovereign of United Italy, 
called by his grateful people by the name 
we give to our George Washington, the 
“Father of his Coimtry,’' rode up on a 
splendid Arabian horse. The “Galant’uo- 
mo” was not a handsome man, but he was 
a valiant soldier and carried himself with 
kingly dignity. It was a striking scene 
and one seldom duplicated in all the history 
of nations: the officers of Garibaldi, who 
followed him through many dangers, all 
wearing the distinctive uniform which won 
for their leader from the Austrians the name 
of “Red Devil”; the dull, cloudy day among 
the mountains and gray rocks of southern 
Italy; the prominent figure of Garibaldi, 
hero of Montevideo and deliverer of Sicily, 
going forward to meet his King, to whom 
he was ready and willing to yield all those 
rich and fertile coimtries which his sword 
had conquered and freed, over which for 
three months he had been absolute Dic- 
tator. On the other side the King stood, 
dressed in the tmiform of a General, stately 
in royal majesty, surrounded by a group of 
handsome officers. It was Garibaldi's part 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily hi 

to give, it was Victor Emmanuers part to 
receive, the spoils of war. 

Garibaldi, approaching the King, saluted 
and cried, “Greeting to the King of Italy!” 

To which the King replied cordially, 
“Thanks. How are you, my dear Gari- 
baldi?” 

After all, it is a very simple matter fora 
kingdom to change hands when one knows 
how to manage it. Francis II, King of 
Naples and Sicily, steps out, imwillingly, to 
be sure, but gracefully; Garibaldi picks 
up the reins of state and presents them to 
the King of Italy, who accepts them with 
a word of thanks. 

The Giant felt this as he watched the two 
great men conversing so quietly. The 
lives of those seven hundred men who lay 
after the battle of Milazzo with imseeing 
glassy eyes turned upward to the deep blue 
sky, where fleecy, gold-rimmed clouds were 
lazily floating, seemed but a trifle in com- 
parison with the magnitude of the enter- 
prise. He stood, thinking, after his slow 
fashion, when the conversation ended. 
Garibaldi saluted once more and reined 


1 12 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

back his horse. The King prepared to 
withdraw after reviewing the troops, who 
marched by in regular file, passing off to- 
ward the camp. Suddenly, from out the 
ranks of Volunteers, a man rushed, holding 
in his hand a piece of white paper. “A 
‘grazia,’ your Majesty!” he cried. 

It is often the custom in Italy for persons 
who have special requests to make to pre- 
sent petitions to royal personages. The 
King good-naturedly paused. Garibaldi sat 
motionless on his horse. Just as the burly, 
thick-set man sprang forward, the steady 
beating of a drum was heard, closer and 
closer. From the camp a forlorn, boyish 
figure came, beating, beating, as regularly 
as if he were leading forward a company 
of soldiers. His eyes were fixed on Gari- 
baldi with a steady, strange glare. The 
Giant saw him march by and tried to stop 
him: “Gigi,” he called, “Gigi! come here! 
Dost not see? It is the King.” 

But Gigi gave no heed. Onward he 
came, with beating drum, and the officers 
around the King watched him in surprise. 
Even the man who held the petition in his 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 113 

hand stood still in amazement. He did not 
recognize the boy — as indeed few would 
have done — ^his appearance was so distress- 
ing and so startling. His clothes hung in 
rags, his eyes glittered strangely, and his 
cheeks bore two brilliant scarlet spots. 

He marched up to Garibaldi, but catch- 
ing sight of the man he started toward him. 
“It is he he cried. “He wants to kill you. 
Beware, Garibaldi!’' 

“He is in a fever,” said the General. 
“Take him away.” 

The brigand at the instant recognized 
Gigi and, being quick of thought, at once 
perceived the great danger of his position. 
It had been perilous enough before — ^he 
had fully realized that when he had prom- 
ised to obey the orders of Viola — it was 
doubly so now. He must act at once or 
not at all. At least, he would not sell his life 
for nothing! From his pocket he drew his 
revolver, just as a couple of soldiers came 
forward in response to Garibaldi’s com- 
mand to remove Gigi, who was plainly 
very ill. But, even though delirious, Gigi 
had one idea in his mind: that man meant 


1 14 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

to kill his hero, Garibaldi; he must save 
him. Throwing off the soldiers’ hands, 
he sprang upon the brigand. The revolver, 
pointed toward the General’s heart, missed 
aim; the ball went wild into the air. 

With an oath the brigand felled Gigi’s 
slender body with a brutal blow, and, be- 
fore anyone realized what a tragedy had 
been avoided through the intervention of a 
poor, demented lad, he broke away and, 
nmning swiftly, was soon lost in the mist 
overhanging the rocks. 

It was the Chicken who carried away 
Gigi, imconscious and bleeding from a cruel 
bruise on his head. He laid him on the 
ground, the only bed they had for him, and 
with gentle hand bathed his head and 
brought him back to life. For a few mo- 
ments Gigi’s mind was clear. 

'T saved the General, didn’t I?” he 
murmured, looking up into the Giant’s face, 
over which big tears were rolling. 

'T suppose thou didst, my boy, but I did 
not understand it all. Hast strength to tell 
me about it?” 

'T overheard their plot down yonder, 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 


115 

where I went to the brook to wash my 
shirt/' Gigi gasped out the words, but 
was painfully exact. 

The Giant nodded. “Whose plot?" 

Gigi faltered. “The two brigands — ^and 
— another man." 

His father’s part in it he could not allow 
himself to mention. He had prayed at 
every shrine along the roadside that he 
might not bring disgrace upon his father: 
“They were to shoot Garibaldi — ^but I 
saved him, didn’t I? O, I’m so tired — so 
tired! Let me go! I must go to warn 
Garibaldi ! I must go ! ’’ 

Kindly, in his strong arms, the Giant held 
him down until the paroxysm of delirium 
was passed. 

“ His fever’s coming on again," he said to 
the Chicken, who now appeared, bearing a 
tin cup full of herb tea. 

“He must drink this," said the Chicken, 
firmly. “I know how to take care of him, 
though he’s very sick. Leave him to me. ’’ 

“But later we’ll carry him to Naples," 
responded the Giant, examining the herb 
tea with disgust. “That’s a bad mixture." 


ii6 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

“Well, he’s got to take it,” said the 
Chicken, with decision. “You let me nurse 
him; I know how and you don’t, and I’ll 
pull him through. It aint the first time 
I’ve seen marsh fever.” 

The Giant meekly obeyed, sitting down 
to smoke by a tree and watching the Chicken 
as he prepared a bed of dried leaves, placed 
Gigi on it, ordered him to drink the nauseous 
dose, and covered him up warmly with all 
the garments he could borrow from the 
Voltmteers, very few of whom owned more 
than enough clothes to cover their own 
bodies. 

“If he comes to himself again,” called out 
the Giant, “ask him how he got here, sick 
as he is. It’s many miles to that God- 
forsaken cacti forest.” 

The Chicken nodded. Later he came to 
the Giant with the news that Gigi was more 
comfortable. “He says he walked,” said 
the Chicken. 

The Giant blew out a tremendous whiff 
of blue smoke. “Per Bacco !” he ejaculated. 


CHAPTER XII 


The hospital ward was bright and cheer- 
ful on that November morning when Gen- 
eral Garibaldi and his staff entered it. 
They made a brilliant touch of color in the 
white rooms, and their swords clanked as 
they walked through the long aisle between 
the beds where sick men lay. For each the 
General had a pleasant word of greeting, to 
which the invalids responded with smiles. 

Gigi lay in the last bed of all, a mere 
shadow of the brown-faced lad who had 
played with Iva imder the olive trees in the 
moimtains of Sicily. But he was slowly 
coming back to health. The Chicken had 
nursed him faithfully and the Giant had 
carried him in his strong arms, as easily as 
if he had been a little child, to the nearest 
railroad station and had brought him to the 
hospital at Naples. A whitecapped nurse 
stood by his side now, and they both 
watched Garibaldi coming slowly toward 
them. With an expression of wonderful 


ii8 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

sweetness on his handsome face the General 
looked down upon the boy who had done 
his best to warn him of danger and to save 
his life. Between ourselves and the one 
who loved us so much that he was willing 
to sacrifice himself for us there is a bond 
which can never be broken. This bond 
joined the hearts of the famous General and 
the humble drummer boy of his Volunteer 
Corps. Garibaldi smiled through his tears. 

'‘How art thou to-day, my boy?” he asked 
kindly. “Better, I hope.” 

“Much better, thank you, Signor Gen- 
erale.” 

“I am very glad. Is there anything I 
can do for thee?” 

“Nothing, General. The Suora is very 
kind to me, and the Giant comes every day 
to make me a visit. See! he brought me 
those flowers.” Gigi pointed a white finger 
to a glass of gaudy autumn blossoms ar- 
ranged in violent contrasts of color, accord- 
ing to the Giant’s rather questionable taste. 
A large bunch of luscious purple grapes lay 
by them and a couple of new-laid eggs. 
“The eggs were brought by the Chicken,” 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 119 

continued Gigi, anxious to give due credit 
to his good friends. 

Garibaldi looked bewildered, and the 
officers, ranged around the bed, smiled 
broadly. 

“I do not understand. Who are the 
Giant and the Chicken? I know no gentle- 
men by such peculiar names.” 

Gigi’s old laugh, ringing, silvery, broke 
out now. 

“Of course you don’t! The Giant is an 
old friend of yours, sir. He has told me 
many stories of the days you fought side by 
side in South America, and how you always 
won.” Gigi’s cheeks grew red with his 
excitement and enthusiasm. “You made 
him Captain of our Sicilian Volunteers. 
Don’t you remember. General? He was 
woimded at Milazzo.” 

“I remember now. But thou art talking 
too much. Is it not so. Sister?” 

The nun nodded, placing her hand on 
Gigi’s head. 

“I must not stay any longer.” 

“You will come again?” pleaded Gigi, 
holding fast to the General’s hand. 


120 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

“I cannot, my boy. To-morrow I set 
sail for Caprera. My work here is done.’' 

There was an embarrassing pause. Only 
the officers knew what it cost Garibaldi to 
yield his place to the regular Italian generals 
and retire to his rocky island in Caprera, 
on the bosom of the sparkling Mediter- 
ranean. He had fought and won, and 
yielded up his conquests to the King. He 
was no longer needed, and a great sadness 
filled his noble heart. Sometime, later. 
Garibaldi would hear the call of his country 
and would come forth to wield his sword 
and lead his soldiers on to victory. In the 
meantime he would lay the stone walls 
of his home on the island, and till the fields, 
and shield the little lambs of his flock with 
a tenderness which belongs to great natures. 
It was just and right, but it was hard — 
even for Garibaldi, who lived for Italy and 
her hopes and interests. The King had 
spoken. He had said: “You have battled 
for a long time. Now it is my turn. Your 
troops are tired, mine fresh. You must 
rest.” And Garibaldi would obey, but 
with a sad heart. Even his triumphal entry 



ONE OF THE DRUMMERS 



» ■ >. 


ft 


*-7 


• 1i' 






-'r-* 

• 

V 


Br.T 

Ss- 


f- r 


-V 


- - 

"V. 








,1*. -■ 


I 


I ^ 
» 


<^‘i " V 


> ■ 



'r 




r . ■ 111 • ' • 

m Ml AMi « .^w\ 


1 » 

^ y 


• " m* 

J 

A 1 


1 

1 V 

c - . ■* 

t < 

jr 


* ? 

Ilk 


, " % 


F- 

xr r 
1 

'a ^ 

A. i 


- 'V ' 

? 


r M 

I'- 



« 


<■ . 


f 

. 

.-• k? 





* 

« 


» W. 






o* 


1* 








r. 


I • '•-'^ 


*'.. *♦ 




■“ # 




1^ • 





• * t 










•A 


iJ 


•ji.- 


4 


'i* » 


t'l 






«... . V. 




•r vw^'T^ \ ■ 

.VlT 

■^- 4- 



*•* 


y 


i» 




- ,s. 


* 

r> 


<■ • 'i'. 


' 


-TJ 


\ 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 12 i 

into Naples, seated in honor by King 
Victor Emmanuers side, receiving the praise 
and applause of the multitude, could not 
heal the wound or hide the scar in General 
Garibaldi’s soul. 

With an effort the General regained his 
composure. “Before I go, I want to thank 
thee, in feeble words, for what thou didst 
for me. I shall not forget it. In token of 
esteem and gratitude, it is my pleasant duty 
to present to thee this medal, the highest 
given for bravery. It is one of those de- 
creed by the municipality of Palermo to be 
given to those of my army who showed im- 
usual courage. It belongs to thee, by 
right. Iddio ti benedica, figlio mio” (God 
bless thee, my son). 

Gigi was speechless with joy while Gari- 
baldi pinned above his heart the bronze 
medal, attached to a ribbon of the national 
Italian colors, red and white and green. In 
our day one of these medals, presented by 
Garibaldi to those who remained of his 
world-renowned “Thousand,” is coimted 
more valuable than the costliest jewel. 
The veteran who wears on his scarlet shirt 


122 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

this medal — ^as gray-haired and bent he 
marches in the procession on the anniver- 
sary of that proud day when the Italian 
troops entered Rome thirty-seven years ago, 
ten years after the conquest of Sicily — is 
counted blessed and honored; a king does 
not wear his crown with more dignity. 

Bending over the white bed, Garibaldi 
kissed Gigi once on his forehead. Then 
the scarlet tunics faded out of the ward 
sunshine and the noise of clanking swords 
was lost in the din of the city street. 

The next day the Giant and the Chicken 
sat beside Gigi’s bed and learned the whole 
story — ^how Garibaldi had come, what he 
had said, and how he had kissed Gigi good- 
by. He seemed to count that kiss the 
highest honor of all. But the men handled 
the bronze medal with awe and reverence, 
as if it were some holy thing. They told 
Gigi how the General had sailed away for 
Caprera that morning on the small ship 
Washington. Only a few friends had gone 
with him. He went away no richer than 
when he had sailed for Sicily a few months 
before. He took with him his tattered 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 123 

uniform, a few hundreds of lire, “a sack of 
vegetables, another of seeds, and a roll of 
dried codfish. The Giant was not ashamed 
of his tears when he described the scene, and 
the Chicken wept openly — ^but then, it was 
not hard for the Chicken to shed tears; he 
had been known to weep over a bag of 
potatoes or an unusually tasty plate of 
soup. One could never tell when the 
Chicken's sentimental side would be touched. 


Francis II had left Naples, and Coimt 
Romoli, a General in the Neapolitan army, 
had transferred his allegiance to the King 
of Piedmont without the slightest com- 
punctions of conscience. For a long time 
he had felt disgust for the imjust, mercenary 
government at Naples, but he could not 
desert the army without dishonor. Al- 
ready the King had received him in audi- 
ence, and he had removed the uniform of a 
Neapolitan officer only to don that of a 
General in the Italian army. It was shortly 
after the departure of Garibaldi for Caprera 
that his servant brought Count Romoli a 


124 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

letter and package the contents of which 
caused him to open his eyes in amazement. 
Seating himself in an easy-chair at the 
window of his palace in Naples, overlooking 
the beautiful bay and the cone of Moimt 
Vesuvius, from which a small tendril of 
white smoke floated off into a sky of peer- 
less blue, the Count read the letter a second 
and then a third time : 

“Dear Brother: Thou wilt be sur- 
prised to receive these lines from one whom 
thou hast long considered dead. I had 
never intended to make myself known to 
thee ; better that thou shouldst imagine me 
slain by the man whom I killed — it is no 
use to enter into the details of that old story 
now. In a few words I will narrate my 
life— or such incidents as it is necessary for 
thee to know. 

“The Coimtess Claudia di Contini fled 
with me, not with Orsini. She became my 
wife, and soon died; but our son lived, and is 
now a boy of sixteen — a mountain lad, 
ignorant of letters or the ways of the world, 
but of intelligent mind and a true, noble 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 125 

heart. I had dreams of taking him to 
Naples and making him a great man; but 
these were only dreams. Perhaps thou 
wilt be for him a father and a guardian. 

“Didst ever hear of Viola the Brigand of 
Sicily, whom all men fear as an evil spirit? 
I am he. I can see thy disgust in thy face ! 
Never mind, my respectable brother, it is 
all over. The Carabinieri will never carry 
me to prison, for I have escaped them and 
the price set upon my head will never be 
claimed. Prepare for another shock. It 
makes me laugh to imagine thy feelings at 
having such a disreputable relative turnup 
so suddenly. It is hard on thee! I had 
hoped to break it more gradually. Didst 
hear of Emilio Rossi, the power behind the 
throne of Francis II? I am he. It is I 
who have held him in power like a puppet, 
and who pulled the wires of government. 
And yet the King did not know me for 
Viola the Brigand. 01 most glorious joke 
of all! I myself issued the order for the 
arrest of Viola, and offered a reward of 
fifty thousand lire to whomsoever should 
produce him, living or dead. It was a joke. 


126 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

indeed! Yet at times I escaped discovery 
only by the merest chance or by my own 
quick wit. 

“And while I was playing these two parts, 
and doing it well, I assure thee, I was a hum- 
ble peasant living in a broken-down old 
house in a mountain village of Sicily. There 
I left my wife, an honest but ignorant 
peasant, and my little daughter, Iva, a 
violet in sweetness and delicacy. I had 
hoped to be proud of Giovanni, my son, 
but I loved Iva, and for this reason I have 
left her behind me, now that I go to a new 
country. When thou readest this I shall 
be already in midocean, with my wife, who 
is faithful and good, and whom I will not 
desert. My part on the stage is played 
out — I will acknowledge that there were 
times when I bitterly regretted the fact that 
I had become an actor in so dangerous a 
play. Francis II can no longer help me; 
I will not become a servant of Victor Em- 
manuel, for I have no love for Italy as a 
Union, and I still have some conscience left, 
though thou mayest doubt it. 

“Viola the Brigand no longer exists; the 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 127 

good fanners may sleep in peace. Under 
the new regime there is no place for him 
and I do not propose to end my days be- 
hind the walls of the Castle of Saint Elmo, 
listening to the dashing of the waves against 
my prison. Besides, I will tell thee the 
truth, I did not really love my trade as 
robber, and went into it simply to get 
wealth. And though I got it, dishonestly, 
I have never enjoyed it. I give thee my 
word of honor, no woman or child ever suf- 
fered at my hand ; no man was killed by me 
or my men except in self-defense, and then 
I tried to refund to his widow or family 
threefold the value of what I stole. I do 
not tell these things to justify myself at all, 
but merely to paint the picture in its true 
colors. In these last days I have made 
restitution where possible. This is my 
story, as far as it concerns thee, except — 
I had almost forgotten — one last incident. 
I was the instigator of a plot to kill Gari- 
baldi — I hate him! It failed, through the 
efforts of my own son, a drummer boy in 
Garibaldi’s army. Now, as it is all over, I 
am glad it failed. It was not an honorable 


128 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

thing — I think it was the worst scheme I 
was ever engaged in — ^but I had my reasons 
for wanting to rid the world of Garibaldi; 
they would not interest thee. Looking at 
it from this standpoint, I am glad my son 
spoiled the plot; I am proud of him, but he 
will never know it. I must be dead to him 
forever, and thou shalt be his father. I 
know thou hast no family and thy wife is 
good. My daughter Iva I have left with a 
woman, Maria Salvucci; if thou wilt be so 
good as to take care of her I will bless thee 
forever. Thou wilt find her at Via Grande 
125, Palermo. Maria will give thee Gigi’s 
inheritance. It is plenty for both, and I 
am sure he will willingly share it with his 
sister. He loves her. Thou canst not 
imagine what it means to me to give up my 
children, but I must do it. I have played 
my part poorly. It is almost time for the 
curtain to ring down upon my life. Per- 
haps I shall do better in a new coimtry; I 
promise thee to try. And when the curtain 
falls, may the good God have mercy on the 
soul of a sinful man! Addio, fratello mio. 

‘‘Romeo. 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 129 

“I forgot to say that thou wilt find Gigi 
in the Hospital of Santo Spirito, Fifth Ward, 
last bed. He has not seen me, but I saw 
him, once, when he was sleeping. He is a 
good boy; make a man of him.” 

For a long time Cotmt Romoli sat by the 
window. The sun went lower toward the 
horizon. Capri and Ischia turned from 
emerald to amethyst as the sun sank; the 
sea became molten gold of wondrous beauty. 
A glow of fire showed on Vesuvius’ summit 
as darkness fell. Count Romoli felt the 
warm tears on his cheeks. He thought of a 
merry-faced boy, his twin brother, with 
whom he had played around the foimtains 
of his father’s villa, the one he now owned 
and where Gigi had been so generously 
helped on that day when he came down to 
Palermo. He remembered when the news 
came that Romeo had been killed. How 
they had grieved for him! He wished he 
might have said good-by to him when he 
left for the new country across the sea. 
Perhaps it was better as it was. In his 
heart he echoed his brother’s prayer: ‘'May 


130 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

God have mercy on the soul of a sinful man ! 
Then he arose and rang the bell loudly. 

“Order the carriage/' he commanded, 
“and quickly. I must go to Santo Spirito.” 

“It will be closed now for the night, 
Signor Conte," protested the man. 

“Then I shall order it opened," responded 
the Coimt, firmly. “And, Orlando, have 
a fire built in the west chamber, and a bed 
prepared. Every comfort, mind! I shall 
bring my nephew back with me. " 

Orlando bowed respectfully, but his lips 
moved as he left the room. “I’ve lived 
with the Count thirty years, but I never 
knew he had a nephew!" he murmured. 


Do you like to know how a story comes 
out? I do, and I am going to tell you what 
became of Gigi. He lived very happily for 
a few years with Iva in the lovely villa by 
Palermo, and received every honor and 
the best education his uncle could give him. 
Then he entered the service of his coimtry, 
and when the Eternal City was taken Gigi 
marched in triumph down the broad Via 


Gigi the Hero of Sicily 13 i 

Vanti Settembre to the Quirinal Palace in 
Rome, and Victor Emmanuel was pro- 
claimed King of all Italy. 

Perhaps you may have been in Rome 
some time when King Humbert, who after- 
ward was so cruelly assassinated, was riding 
out from the palace to review the ten thou- 
sand troops quartered in the city. In the 
brilliant train of officers who accompanied 
their sovereign you might have seen Cotmt 
Giovanni Romoli, the head of his family 
since the death of his uncle. His hair was 
gray, but his face was good and noble. On 
his imiform he wore several decorations, 
some of gold and diamonds. Among them, 
fastened by a ribbon of red and white and 
green, was an inconspicuous medal of bronze 
bearing on it the profile of Giuseppe Gari- 
baldi. And to Coimt Romoli this is more 
precious than all the others, for it was pre- 
sented to the poor drummer boy of the 
Volimteers by the great hero himself. 

Down in the court of a Roman palace 
the Giant polished the General’s weapons 
until they reflected back the glorious rays 
of the Italian sun. He whistled cheerily 


132 Gigi the Hero of Sicily 

the Hymn of Garibaldi as he worked, oc- 
casionally exchanging pleasant words with 
Maria, his wife, Gigi’s old nurse, whom the 
Coimt did not neglect to provide for when 
he took possession of his fortmie. The 
Chicken still lives, and tills the fields aroimd 
Coimt Romoli’s villa. He never ceases to 
regret that his search for Viola the Brigand 
was imsuccessful, and that the large reward 
offered for the robber, “living or dead,’' re- 
mained forever imclaimed. 


I 
















OCT 19 190? 




